


East Wind

by StudioRat



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol, Bondage, Dom/sub Play, Eventual Smut, Gothic, Grief/Mourning, Impact Play, Intrigue, Multi, Peril, Power Dynamics, Scenery Porn, Shame, Slow Build, Sorry Not Sorry, War, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-14 13:50:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 25,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5746192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StudioRat/pseuds/StudioRat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another smutty Ganlink story, <strike>which with any luck will be short.</strike> which is apparently not interested in being short.</p><p>What even is my brain anymore.</p><p> </p><p>Setting:<br/>Sideways of and before Majora. It is spring. Ganondorf, King and Protector of the Geldo is 20, and it is late in the fifth year of his reign - the eleventh year since the sands took a child and gave the people a prince in return. The wars continue as always, and despite the effort of the best diplomats four nations have to offer during the winter summits, peace remains a distant dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We but teach bloody instructions, which, being taught, return to plague the inventor...

The first wispy tendrils of false dawn threaded through the gnarled trees to pool at his feet, somnolent and seductive. Another morning, he might entertain their embrace, and steal a slice of serenity and solitude for himself alone. He knelt, singing soft and low to the spirits of the wasted hillside, calling them to dance with the gray dawn, and weave a cloak of silence for his warriors.  
  
And their horses.   
  
Ganondorf stood, satisfied by the stately pattern of the rising mist. The spirits would spin on until he released them back to the chaos of their death. By true sunrise, the fog would stretch to the very vault of the heavens. The manor and its little village would fall, and the ignorant Hylians would never even know it was the anger of their own unhallowed dead that unraveled them.   
  
He turned, casting a critical eye on the terrain below. Behind him, his Zharu mumbled in her sleep like a child clinging to dreams, her feathered hooves pressed deep into the dark loam. It was well that she could nap in these rare quiet moments. This broken country did not suit her majesty any more than it suited him, but the Vosterkun precinct was difficult to secure precisely because of that. Nabooru's reports suggested there could not be more than two divisions spread across the whole of it, and perhaps nine career soldiers in Avosgart if one stretched the definition generously. She sneered at such a small prize for the first raid of the season, but Gan preferred to court omens of victory rather than dice for extravagant gain.   
  
Vosterkun grew little grain, and what they did plant was mostly forage stuff. But they did trade for preserved barrels of lowland wheat and barley, and their rambling wild vineyards and groves conjured abundance from shale and dust. They herded goats and sheep - much as the people did - though Vosterkun stock was fatter, and softer, if fatally stupid. This would be a fine raid, yielding more than enough to feed his warriors for another month and still send a caravan home.   
  
Avosgart might even make a passable settlement, once the precinct was liberated. Of course, the manor would need to be moved to more defensible ground, but that could wait until summer. No need to draw on the demon gem when solstice magic would serve just as well.   
  
"Be ready to move," he said.   
  
Nabs hissed in irritation - she was justifiably proud of her stealth, and hated him for hearing her before she wanted him to. Eleven years since she had been able to surprise him, and still she tried. One day, she would learn to accept the pattern of the world, and his position in it.   
  
"Yeah, I think we're all ready. These clouds -"   
  
"Are to our advantage. Pass the word for full veils, and half rations for anyone that draws her sword before my command."   
  
"Of course, Sun's Ray, the enemy will never see us," she said, though she did not veil her annoyance half as well as she thought. "Three divisions of heavy horse would make enough thunder to wake them a league away - I will send the forward units afoot at once-"   
  
"The charge will go forward in one mark as planned," he said, watching the first shards of morning embroider the jagged hills hemming in this valley. "There is a lowland caravan expecting to reach Avosgart tonight - offload the pitch and black powder here to remove temptation and save weight. Division leaders may keep a few charmed bolts in the event they have hidden cannon or fireflower."   
  
"Clever, to weave another ambush with the prize itself," she said, and he could hear the muffled chime of maile when she planted her fist on her hip. "Border people are pragmatic, so as long as they don't light the watchfire when they hear us, we should be able to take the manor and clear away the waste by midafternoon. Though if your Stalfos were good for anything but-"   
  
"The watchfires will not be a problem."   
  
Nabs bowed, muttering in graceless deference. He decided not to notice it - this time. Victory was always the most perfect censure, and _she_ was more effective when she could speak freely. The Rova did not agree, but they rarely left the temple now, and had never understood armies or politics in any case. In the field, it was far more important that his Exalted be the best warrior, thief, and tactician.   
  
Flattery did not see the people fed.


	2. Mist

The horses did not like running in the fog, but though they complained, they followed Zharu and her master down into the valley and across the fallow fields towards the veiled bulk of slumbering Avosgart. Where the lead mare went, so also went safety - and with every uneventful rod of land they put behind them, the mood of the people grew more confident. They all accepted the perfectly even ground without question - a fortunate circumstance and nothing more.

Ganondorf murmured praise for Zharu's loyalty as she gathered herself to leap low stone walls she could barely see. He could spare little enough attention from the delicate magic of sweeping away furrows and rabbit holes from their path like a tailor smoothing cloth before their knife. He remained in the saddle more by reflex than anything else. Where a lesser creature would take advantage of a rider's distraction to wander or laze about, she led the herd with complete confidence in her master's will. He promised her the path ahead was safe, that he would stay with and protect her, and that was enough.

Three more low fences overtaken, and the town lay directly ahead. He could feel the dead stone walls rising up from the earth, and the attention of the restless Poes outside them. Soon enough, he would call on them - but for now it was less expensive to persuade them to indifference.

Especially as half their attention already centered on some other traveler, near the gatehouse.

Ganondorf weighed the cost of far-looking, and decided to signal the flanking divisions instead. A few letters wrought in flame orange strained him not at all, and they floated off towards their targets at once. The muffled rumble of his warriors fell away, vanishing in the enchanted mist behind him as they dropped back.

Ganondorf shaped the smoothing spell into a more pointed wedge, urging Zharu to another burst of speed along the verge of the road. He counted a long one hundred, then let the spell go as he frayed the mist directly ahead. If any of his riders lamed their mounts now, it would be in reckless stupidity.

The heavy oiled brass and beechwood gate reflected the glow of the watch torches ranked along each side of the road, a curious stage for three arguing Hylians and a sprawling chaos of cargo at its foot. Gan cursed them all roundly, forced to recenter his attention on guiding Zharu through the mess of stray crates and barrels and toppled amphorae. The verge this close to the gate would be too dangerous for her - but she followed his touch with perfect grace.

"I don't care if you're the fucking _Princess_ ," bellowed one of the armored Hylians ahead. Too little light to see his livery, but likely town watch. "The gate stays closed, and we ain't leaving it for all the godsbedamned shine in Vosterkun. Now get this shit out of the road and your skinny ass out of my sight."

"You foolish man - for your own good I warn you-" said a fourth as angrier of the lesser guards jabbed him with the butt of their halberd.

"Crazy outlander," said the lazy guard, leaning on her halberd.

Gan drew Zharu to a halt ten paces away. None of them noticed him yet - even thinned, the enchanted fog veiled him from sight and sound unless one of them chanced to look directly at him. Unlikely, given the guards' complete preoccupation with the unlucky young man in gray.

Fully half of all that was wrong with Hyrule, distilled.

He watched the pathetic demonstration for less than a tenth of a candlemark, gathering his power and waiting for Nabooru to adjust their plan to accommodate the chaos of the road. There was another gate to the east, but circling around to another safe crossing of the snowmelt tributary that supported this town would take them miles out of their way, and even he would be hard pressed to maintain the fog that long without a natural storm system nearby.

In the end, though, Ganondorf did not get to choose his moment. Another annoyance - but one that piqued his curiosity. The seventh time the guards knocked the stranger to the ground in rebuke, he twisted as he rose, his sharp jaw canted at a stubborn angle. He pushed his fair hair out of his face impatiently, and glared up into the mist.

His expression said, _I know you've been watching._

Gan laughed in spite of himself, shifting his grip on his steel lance.

The man in gray planted one fist against his slender hips and made a sweeping gesture to encompass all the random cargo littering the road.

"Well?" he said, with a bitter twist on his lips. "Stop gloating and take what you came for, hopeless."

The guards looked at each other, and the lazy one made the universal gesture for lunatics. The cruel one agreed, and drew back their halbard to aim another blow at the young man's back. The leader followed the stranger's gaze - and shrieked, startling the cruel one midthrust.

Zharu lifted her head with pride - she possessed a wicked sense of humor, and enjoyed the effect they had on people when they rode together, all hundred and twenty odd stone of them, plus another dozen in chainmaile and tack and boiled leather. Ganondorf didn't fault her for it - he took especial pleasure inflicting such surprises on petty Hylian tyrants. The defiance of the one in gray though - that amused him in such a novel way that it took a moment to realize the man had not addressed him in Hylian.

In that moment, the cruel guard regained their wits, and started running for the gatehouse door - and the alarm bell within. Ganondorf stood quickly to add a little more thrust behind the lance throw, shredding the mist behind him as soon as the steel barb left his hand.

"Leave them alone," demanded the one in gray, without turning to see where the lance ended.

Ganondorf grinned at him, summoning a fresh lance from the ether as the first buried itself in the cruel one's thigh and bore them to the ground. "Why should you care for the fate of tyrants?"

"Farore have mercy - look!" cried the lazy guard, whose gaze was fixed on some point behind Zharu's rump.

Good. Nabs had brought the rest in close. Ganondorf raised his fresh lance high, illuminating it with a little twist of rust and gold skyfire. "You address the wrong god, girl."

"I said, leave them alone. You came for supplies and spoils - here they are. Take them and go."

Ganondorf drew an arc in the sky and punctuated it with a thrust through the center of it. Behind him, a hundred swords rose to greet the morning.

The leader of the guard lost their dignity, and ran. Unwisely, they too chose the delusion that the gatehouse offered safety, and fell in much the same way.

"You have spirit," Ganondorf said, summoning a third lance to hand. "I admire that. But. What you do _not_ have is any way to stop me, little hero."

"Don't," he said, still in accented Geldo. He folded his whipcord arms like he meant to haggle the price of bread, not hold off an army. "You came for the caravan - here it is. You came for land - deeds to half of Avosgart are in the blue chest. You waste your time seeking a duel with the marquis, as he is hiding in a cupboard."

"Why," said Ganondorf, directing Zharu to approach. She tossed her head, making a show of every step - but the little hero held his eye instead.

The madman smiled, but his wide blue eyes held no mirth. "Unlike these fools, he believed me when I showed him my real face."

Ganondorf loomed over the tiny, brave, unarmed Hylian. There was nothing impressive about him whatsoever, except for his mad defiance. He had the broad shoulders of a swordsman or a laborer, but he was otherwise painfully thin. His moon-pale skin stretched taut over sinew and bone, and if his charcoal colored boots had once been fine, they were ruined by weather and hard travel now. His mourning dove gray shirt and breeches both hung loose, though from their cut they were clearly meant to fit closely.

Ganondorf needed to know how this mad traveler knew his own plans more completely than his Exalted, and in time to gather such a substantial bribe to divert his course. But - hostile ground was never made for conversation.

"To what end do you bargain so desperately, little hero?"

"The only end that matters," he said. "These things - more than you'd have gained by bloodshed - for peace in Avosgart."

"Why trade for half when I can take all?" He gestured broadly, calling a small knot of magic to ready.

The madman made a rude sound, undaunted. "And surrender all chance of attaining your true desire, to rule one provincial border town? Don't be stupid."  



	3. Ash

Ganondorf rearranged the meat and vegetables in his bowl for the third time, but still it held no appeal whatsoever. No Geldo campaign had met such extravagant success since ancient days. He should be triumphant, or at least content.

He forced himself through the tedium of another bite, refusing to acknowledge Nabooru's sharp look. She thought she knew what drove him - and she wasn't entirely wrong. He did despise the manner of their acquisition. _Not_ , however, for their nearly bloodless method. He hated the fact they were unearned, extravagant bribes.

The tightly packed, banded blue chest in his tent gave them the rights to the rents and disposition of nearly half of the arable land in Vosterkun now, and hunting privilege in two thirds of its forests. Not, curiously enough, any mining rights to the silver and copper veins here. The Geldo already possessed rich gem deposits, and apparently their benefactor saw no need to add such comparatively poor yields to their holdings.

 _That_ , Ganondorf mused over a bowl of excellent Hylian brandy, _was the problem_. Not that the madman was mistaken - but because he wasn't.

An aide approached, bowing deeply, reaching to clear away his almost untouched dinner. One of the younger girls - a skittish sort ill suited to her duties but not yet distinguished in anything else. He noticed her hands trembling, and the demon gem stirred. An example needed to be made, even if he spent half the night choking down tasteless stuff so he could have time to _think_.

The girl yelped and burbled pitifully as six slender darts flew from the ether to pin her wrist to the table inside a clever angled gauntlet. They barely grazed her skin in passing - just enough to draw a bloom of fresh blood.

Ganondorf calmly picked through the bowl for a strip of spiced beef still pink and oozing. He dropped it on his tongue without flourish, well aware every eye in the tent was on him. He kept his own gaze on the bowl as he chewed, picking through for another. Most of the meat was unfortunately quite tender, and he could not find any gristle to provide further excuse to prolong the moment.

The girl whimpered, sinking to her knees on the other side of the low table, trapped. Even the demon gem fell silent with anticipation.

Ganondorf licked his fingers clean as he finished the second tasteless piece, and reached for the brandy. Now he turned his gaze to the girl. Leilani. That was her name. Leilani avadha Ramal, youngest sister of Avish avadha Saiev, Roc of the fourth division.

To her credit, she bit her lip and made a valiant but futile attempt to stop her tears. She had the same coffee colored eyes as her older sisters, though she made no attempt to adorn them further with malachite or alabaster. She wore little jewelry, mostly copper and lapis, though her spirit gem was a stunning example with many gold inclusions.

Ganondorf banished the darts to the ether again, and savored the brandy. Leilani drew a shaking breath and withdrew her bloody hand to kneel in full obeisance. Badly shaken then, and by morning the whole camp would be reminded that glorious battle or no, he was a War King.

"Did you know," he said, pausing for another sip. The stuff was nearly art, intended for the extensive cellars of the dissolute marquis of Duzhar. "The Hylians make this from the same fruit as their red wine. Yet it is nothing like - neither in color nor strength, flavor or setting. Why do you suppose that is, Leilani avadha Ramal?"

"Forgive me, Sun's Ray," she said, mostly to the rug.

Ganondorf cradled the small bowl in one hand, measuring the silence of his officers. "Taste it," he said.

Silence.

The manipulations of the elusive madman in gray were eroding his authority. By design, no doubt. The perfidy of Hylians went beyond the bounds of reason, and he could not puzzle through _why_ the man would bother. What did he stand to gain, extorting spoils or frittering away a fortune on entire caravans of goods? By what strange magic did he manage to vanish in full view of the whole army and less than an ell from his own hand? And _how_ did he know where they would ride next?

The imperfections of magic-fueled Stalfos were an eternal lesson on the limitations of pure obedience. Yet his authority on the field must be above question - and the maintenance of his strength was an essential component of the same. The great Ganondorf, War King and protector of the Geldo, would be done with his meal when he declared it so and not a moment before, irrespective of the petitions awaiting him after.

He held the brandy toward Leilani, both amused and annoyed at once. The demon gem muttered, and he grinned widely at the cringing girl before him. She sniffled, sitting back on her heels and reaching for the half-empty bowl at last. She trembled still - but had the grace to manage a meditative sip without spilling so much as a drop.

He watched her lick the flavor from her lips, her expression carefully neutral. Yes, her spirit was wasted ferrying dishes from fire to table. He would give her care of his armament for a moon, where he could watch her more closely.

"Its spirit speaks to me of flame, Sun's Ray, and of loss. It has become wholly new through adversity, marked by oak and honey both."

Ganondorf lifted his chin, tempering his amusement with stern reproach as he swept his gaze over his officers. He knew well his golden eyes were different from others, and no few of the women flinched under his appraisal. Not, unfortunately, Avish or Maedra. _They_ grinned like a pair of rock cats, their rich brown skin flushed with drink and desire.

And there were three other petitioners awaiting his attentions besides them.

"Taste it again," he said, without looking at her. "This time, tell me how long was the road from field to tongue."

Which of them told the girl to hurry him along?

Varesh wore a bright countenance, and her humor made a pleasure of duty. He'd given her one handsome child already, fat and cheerful as their mother, and looked forward to more. The law demanded he attend her last though, as she had already one boon. She complained of his absence only in jest - and if she did tell Leilani to clear his table it would be to send some more attractive dish to wake his appetite.

Nialet was the eldest, some twenty years his senior. She had first claim above all the others until a seedling took in earnest, but she owned a great store of patience. He liked her also, and genuinely hoped she sought him for another, after. She was a brisk, pragmatic woman, sturdy of build and dry of humor. She showed no interest whatever in glory or rank - she fought for the chance of land, and the dream of a farm and family. That life would suit her - she could coax fruit and flower from anything that grew. Yet - she had come to him often since the early end of the last campaign, to no avail.

Reiva he barely knew. Like Avish and Maedra, this was her first petition cycle, but where he worked closely with the latter, the former was a first-year warrior with neither triumphs nor failures to summon his attention for any reason. Any of them could have persuaded the girl to folly.

Maedra though, had challenged Nialet to a sparring match three or four towns ago, and lost.

"Forgive me, Sun's Ray. The spirits seem to speak nonsense-"

"I did not ask if it made sense."

Nabooru winced, and toyed with her own wine - an excellent red from some lowland vintner, also liberated from the marquis of Duzhar, but not by them. Not directly.

"They seem to sing of a glorious summer with blue mephitic winds in the east, and fields rich with potash. Then they sing of blades and fire, oak and darkness for a dozen years at least, marked only by the solstice culling, and then only of darkness in the prison of glass until this very day. But the last eruption of Death Mountain was over two centuries ago-"

"Two and one half, in fact. Do you like the taste, Leilani?"

Silence. _Now_ Avish's grin faltered.

"It is surely too refined for mere-"

"That is not what I asked," he said.

"I do not," she said, placing the bloodstained bowl on his table with great care. Leilani sat back, chin high, as if the shame of tears were a trifle to her. The cuts marking her wrist and hand welled only sluggishly now - even without intervention they would heal swiftly enough.

"Roc Avish," he said, reclaiming the brandy. It was, after all, a sin to waste. "Remind us all what is significant about a wine that remembers the last eruption of Death Mountain."

Avish bowed where she sat, buying another moment to think. Now, perhaps, she would realize there may be more than one reason for a man to lose his appetite. Better still if concern for her sister's grave peril led her to withdraw her petition for a cycle - or nine - or forever. Triumph itself if this rebuke persuaded her to argue less and obey more.

"Hyrule suffered a blight, Sun's Ray, three generations after. If not for the ironvine rootstock the last King sold them, they'd have made no more wine."

"They did not honor their promise of fair trade, did they, Roc Avish?"

"No," she agreed, folding her arms. "But we _did_ gain by it, and it is useful to put an enemy in one's debt."

"Hn," he said, rolling the brandy over his tongue, savoring the sharp flavor of that ancient east wind. "Maedra avadha Saiev, you will relinquish command to your second and assume the duties Leilani is unfortunately no longer able to attend. The rest of you may go. I will hear no petitions tonight."


	4. Divisions

The demon gem lay silent and sullen in a nest of violet skyfire, refusing to lend its power to his spell. Ganondorf swore at it, threatening to drop it into the cauldron of Death Mountain. He wove his desire around it again, hardening his will.

It demanded blood.  
Royal, by preference.

He snarled, and snapped the steel casket shut, sealing it with a twist of his own power. The lamps flickered in their amber glass bowls, swaying with the creaking tent poles as the tempest prowled around his tent, fencing with his wards. Another cantrip, and he vanished casket and gem through the ether.

He would not allow a rock to dictate anything. He was _King_.

The veiled elite saluted crisply when he thrust aside the curtains partitioning off his makeshift workroom. Yet. None of them would meet his eye. They were _afraid_ of him.

Fine.

"Summon the Rocs. _Now._ "

Nabooru was going to hate this plan.

-

Ganondorf leaned against the central tent pole, pretending he didn't desperately need its aid. He knew better than to work greater magics at this time of year, and leagues away from stable reservoirs of power. The demon gem could have mitigated that - and kept the Rocs out of it - but it grew both more bold and more stubborn with every use. Casting such a complex, layered thing not just once but thrice inside a week from his personal stores drained him dangerously low.

And yet, if anything, this third illusion was the best of the set. She even moved right.

Then again, perhaps that part of it had nothing to do with him. Or not his magic, anyway.

"Stand. Aside. Refuse again and I'll see you both assigned to the wasteland gates for the rest of your careers." Nabooru used her field voice, harsh and pitched to carry. Half the camp would know her mood in a quarter mark if they didn't already.

"King's orders," returned one veiled Elite with equal force.

"He is not to be disturbed until morning," added the other.

"Too bad," Nabooru said.

A moment of silence, interrupted by the sharp, subtle click of blades closing. He grinned to himself, proud of his stubborn, loyal guards. Defying the Exalted Nabooru nearly qualified as a spirit trial.

"You've made your point, we're very impressed, yeah? You followed orders, you really did," she said, laughing. A smacking sound of her clapping one on the shoulder, followed by a startled grunt and thump. Because _of course_ she threw them both to the dust. "Now don't make me remind you why I'm Exalted and you aren't. Go have a drink, there's a good girl. You too, run along. If he says so much as boo about it tomorrow, you come directly to me, understand?"

Nabooru marched through the tent with purpose and no little profanity, shoving aside the curtains partitioning the space impatiently. She circled sunwise around the curtained central workroom, kicking over his desk chair as she passed through his office. She was particularly eloquent about the condition of the sleeping platform in the south 'room', crowded as it was with drowsy petitioners - among them Roc Avish and Reiva avadha Tavaru, fast asleep and well hidden at the center of the nest of blankets and companions.

Nialet laughed, sobering only slightly when Nabooru marched right through the middle of the wreckage of debauchery and pushed through the heavy layered draperies of silk velvet on the far side.

"You," Nabooru growled. "How _dare_ you? You may be king, but I will fucking disown you if you pull anything like this again."

Ganondorf raised an eloquent brow, perversely pleased by her fury, though he wasn't sure what provoked it so thoroughly. No doubt she'd elaborate.

She fumed , standing nearly toe-to-toe with him, fists on hips, head tipped back and jaw set. Five, six heartbeats passed in silence. She struck without so much as a twitch of warning, rocking up on her toes to deliver a lightning-quick yet disdainful backhand across his smooth-shaven jaw.

He folded his arms across his chest, watching her shake the sting from her knuckles, completely undaunted.

"Answer me, you smug son of a thrice-cursed wind," she snarled, jabbing at the hollow under his ribs, though it was twice protected by plush, tailored black wool arming suit and good brain-tanned Hylian leather adorned with subtle runes and the pattern of the gods' teeth. "I've held my peace through your dramatics before, though the Mother knows it's been a trial. Your irreverent disregard for tradition is one thing. But this? Have you gone mad?"

Ganondorf waited.

Nabooru sliced the air with her hands, barely half a hand from his abdomen, leaving no doubt of her desire to pummel him. "Your behavior this week has been appalling - and that stunt on the sparring field this afternoon? Disgraceful! Wagering like a dissolute foreigner, leaving your right side wide open in eight matches of every ten, and letting your horn lead your steps in broad daylight like some Hylian lech. I don't care if you've sand for brains, you _will_ conduct yourself with better manners than a half-trained stallion or mother save me I'll break you myself."

Ganondorf almost choked trying to smother his laughter. She was _livid_.

"You will keep your fucking pants on in decent company - and I don't care how many petitions you have to attend," she snarled. "And if you so much as drop _one more_ arrow in practice - wipe that damn grin off your face!"

That did it. He threw his head back, laughing loud and long, shaking the tent poles with his mirth.

Nabooru froze, still staring at his mirror image in front of her. Nialet smirked down at her, arms still folded, enjoying her role quite as much as Reiva and Avish obviously were.

"Oh, no. Do go on," he said, when he could breathe again. "Mutiny, assault, trespassing, blasphemy - and all inside a mark. What else would you like to add tonight Nabs? Arson perhaps?"

Nabooru turned slowly, her features a mask of pure horror. She'd stalked right past him in her rage, and he wasn't even wearing shadows. "Mother of sands."

"Tsk, more blasphemy."

"What have you _done_?"

"What is necessary," he said, crossing his ankles and resuming his casual stance leaning against the horseapple wood tent pole. It creaked in predictable protest. If she guessed how badly he wanted to get off his feet entirely, she wouldn't give him away, but she wouldn't care either. "I expect no less from you."

"You're messing with that cursed stone again, aren't you?"

He shrugged. "I didn't need it for this."

"You're a terrible liar. Why in the name of whatever you still consider holy do you think _this_ necessary?"

He shrugged. "It fooled you, didn't it?"

She folded her arms, resuming her stubborn resistance. "I suspected madness this afternoon. Now-"

"Don't," he said, tucking his chin and averting his eyes. He hated how badly he needed her to understand. "I've already given orders to the Rocs. We divide the army tonight. They know nothing but that I will join them late - two marks after they set out. You _understand_ the grave danger our people face, Nabs. You will lead the heart of our strength and all of the petitioners save Reiva and Avish south. Sever the bridge behind you and await word from me."

"This plan is stupid. How long will these phantoms last anyway?"

"They aren't phantoms, and the glamours will persist until I unravel them. And don't hit Nialet again however much you decide to hate me. She's with child."

"Finally," she snorted, crossing her arms and glaring at both of them. Precious little unsettled Nabooru, but he had to admit Nialet's wry grin looked positively wicked on his face. "I don't like this. This kid has you going against all reason, dividing our strength. Where will Avish be? Reiva? She's only first year, how could you-"

"Reiva will be with Roc Korosh circling west to the mountain shrines and hamlets along the old Termina road. Avish rides east with her division to take Yarat as planned. Or its tribute anyway, if it's anything like the rest of this farcical campaign."

"And you?

"North," he said. "I'll have the Elite and three sections from the First, half scouts, half ten-year."

"You _are_ mad, storming Snowpeak with three sections and no artillery to speak of."

"Karazhin village first, and all the ten-year are handy with incendiary shot. I'm going north precisely because it _is_ mad. This will either flush out the traitor feeding that 'kid' intelligence or force him to tip his hand."

"And when the Baron of Karakut sends his division to meet you? His personal guard are no small part of why Vosterkun actually has weight at court." She shook her head, refusing to acknowledge his point.

"So I'll meet him," he said, holding her gaze. "We could do worse than ally with a Darknut clan which wrests a Barony from Hyrule and manages to keep it."

"You're riding into the jaws of the wolf, and you know it. You've turned into one hell of a warrior, but you're an idiot for sending away the only fighter who can best you."

"That, Exalted, is where you are mistaken. I send away the general who can keep our people safe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't actually map out the towns, sorry. I'm just sortof sketching in stuff that might exist past the 'hand of the gods' on canon maps, where Gerudo territory abuts Snowpeakish territories.
> 
> Also: when I envision the Darknut in this particular AU, I'm going off the vaguely anthro-canid knight design in Windwaker.


	5. Sparks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for reference: when I envision the Darknut in this particular AU, I'm going with the vaguely anthro-canid knight design in Windwaker.

The lowering gray-green clouds pressed against the proud mountains, rumbling their murderous intent. Yet they released no rain, holding tight rein on the crackling violence brewing within.

Ganondorf sat back in the saddle as Zharu stalked around the ugly market square, amused by the morbid poetry of it all. He let the heavy trishul trail from his hand, deceptively casual. The children were screaming, of course, and a handful of the weaker Kharazhin townsfolk wept and wailed over their misfortune. Annoying, but unimportant. The most foolish among them were no longer an issue.

Zharu shied, pulling hard to the left. A minor rebellion - neither rein nor hand allowed her the room to follow through. She laid her ears back and bared her teeth in warning, refusing to answer the full command. Every thudding step over the fallen bodies of his valet and her partner was a protest.

Not that the Hylians would appreciate her display of sentiment over cold meat. They would see their own hatred and violence reflected back at them and fear him all the same, whether they understood the significance of his regard or not.

The mill downstream of the village exploded behind him, raining bits of wood and stone onto the road and the wall, dropping sparks into thatch. The miller bared her teeth at him, murder in her looks.

He lifted his trishul exactly ten degrees.

She spat, and turned away, wedging herself between two blank-faced herd boys and cutting ahead toward the market corral.

Ganondorf drew a low, languid knot in the air with the triple-bladed weapon, letting his gaze wander over the miserable crowd filing into the corral. Enough of them understood the mingled promise and threat to dampen their noise somewhat. A handful of veiled First poured oil over every post and rail, and another handful herded the idiot villagers into it with their heavy hooked blades.

The remainder moved from building to building, stripping each of preserved food stores, gold, rupees, furs, silks, and weapons. Everything went onto one vast horde in the center of the bloodied market square, heaped at the foot of the standard-pole which would shortly gain a new adornment.

"Mayor Ibas," he said, and half the villagers turned from gawping at him to stare instead at the rotund elder kneeling between his remaining Elite at the foot of the growing pile of spoils. "I understand you have a son."

"You got everything you could want from us. Just take it and go!"

"Categorically false," he said, directing Zharu to pause beside the bound Darknut Knights they'd discovered at their leisure in the tavern. "I cannot even take away all that I brought. Where is he hiding?"

"Winter is bad enough - this early in the year there is nothing - the goats haven't even kidded - we will starve!"

"You have not answered my question," he said, watching the Darknut for their reaction. Their ears twitched, but no more. Impossible to read.

"He's only a boy. Young and foolish-"

"He left childhood behind the moment he drew blood," said Ganondorf, glancing toward the rising noise northeast of the square. The warriors' whoop and cry told him of their success without needing to see what they dragged behind them. "I'm sure your charcoal-burners will be willing to educate you in the arts of gleaning and poaching and scavenging."

"Please, my lord-" said the mayor. "It is my fault he didn't understand-"

Ganondorf nudged Zharu forward, tucking the central blade of the trishul under the mayor's double chin, forcing them back on their heels, staring up at him in abject terror. "Yes. It is _all_ your fault."

"O Great King Ganondorf-! We bring you a sacrifice," crowed the Lance of the First.

He resisted the temptation to roll his eyes at her dramatics. She had every right to vent her grief - his late valet had been her younger sister. "Throw it on the fire with all the rest."

Mayor Ibas gave a strangled cry. "Fire?"

Ganondorf smiled. "You didn't really think I would weigh down my warriors with all this trash, did you?"

"Good goddesses, have mercy," Ibas begged. "You've already burned half the village - what do you want? I will pay, my lord - I and no one else-"

"You people are _obsessed_ with prices," he drawled, withdrawing the blade to watch the First drag their captive into the square. They'd bloodied the youth already, and made sure the whole village had the opportunity to see. They'd stripped him to his singlet, and shorn him of his fair hair except for a narrow cockscomb running from brow to nape. White down feathers clung to his skin, and the foolish boy swore with every stumbling step. "I'm sure you understand the complications of market scarcity, supply and demand, difficulty of transport, hazards of trade-"

"Please my lord," begged Ibas. "Have mercy."

"Exactly as much as my people see," he answered.

Ganondorf raised the trishul, summoning his power as he scribed a triple whorl in golden skyfire. Crackling light whipped around the standard pole, crawling over the pile of loot until the whole of it glowed with potential. The elite stepped out of its circle, shoving Ibas to the cold stones of the square. Bound, Ibas could not break their fall, and rolled pathetically onto their side, doughy face smeared with blood.

A single Word completed the spell, and flames rose from the woven light to lick at the stars. It cost - exchange spells always cost - but the delicate work of trading only half the pile for fuel and calling firesparks at the same time hollowed him out. Even after drinking in the bitter power of violent death visiting Kharazhin.

"I take it back," the youth screamed, voice cracking. "You filth aren't thieves, you're monsters!"

The First hauled him to his feet ungently. "Mind your tongue or lose that too."

"Evil," he spat, with all the craven violence of a caged wild thing. "Foul, stinking, grasping-"

Ganondorf laid the long blade on the boy's shoulder so the flanking one pressed against his throat and stemmed his cowardly venom. "In light of your misfortune, I invite you all to join our victory feast."

His people laughed.

He smiled at the youth, watching the blood drain from his pale face. "We have enough roast cucco for everyone."

" **That's enough** ," said a voice like the black wind. " **Let them go.** "

The Darknut lifted their long muzzles, ears high and focussed on the bonfire behind him. The First swore, and his Elite moved away from the petrified Ibas to guard his left. Ganondorf weighed the fearful hush of the Kharazhin villagers in their pen, and drew back to strike.

The trishul exploded in his hand, sending Zharu into a screaming, rearing fit. Blinding many-colored light swept the steel fragments into a quicksilver whirlwind, slicing through leather and flesh in a hundred places.

**"I said, _enough._ They don't have what you want."**

Ganondorf fought to regain control of his terrified mount, swearing. The challenger must be a powerful mage of some kind - he would have to summon the gem as soon as Zharu settled and damn the price.

" **I** **told you not to do anything stupid,** " said the voice, and a white light as fierce as summer crashed over them all, driving the Elite to their knees.

The demon gem whispered from its prison of steel and shadow, rich with promise. Ganondorf kicked free of the stirrups as Zharu overbalanced, tumbling to the ground in a practiced roll. The nearest Elite surrendered her heavy blade without need for the order, though she struggled to regain her feet.

"Bold words for a charlatan," he bellowed, squinting against the firelight and smoke and dazzling aftermath of the light spell. "Your tricks won't save you."

"Don't be stupid," sang the familiar accented tenor. The slender figure of the madman in gray walked calmly from the towering fire, hands spread at his sides, apparently empty. "I'm not the one in need of saving."

"You," said Ganondorf, lowering his borrowed steel. No weapon he'd tried against the madman could strike before the other could vanish. His magic was unlike anything he'd ever seen or read of - and his arrogance was boundless.

"Me," agreed the mad stranger, circling right, undaunted by Zharu's trembling, walleyed hostility. He wore the same unremarkable gray shirt and breeches as before, but this time his short hair was matted with gore and there was a glint of green and gold flashing under cuff and collar. "Go home, Desert King. Feast and grow fat on what you have already. Their blood can't buy what you want."

"You're a terrible spy, little hero. You can't ransom every pathetic little village in Hyrule-"

"Watch me," said the madman, offering his hand to Zharu. The traitorous beast shoved her nose under it and heaved an enormous sigh, fear forgotten.

Ganondorf laughed, and held up his fist to forestall the arrows before they could fly. They'd never find their mark anyway. "As it please you. But there is no ransom you can levy for faithless cowards - his life is mine."

"Death will teach him nothing, and gain you less."

Ganondorf shook his head, turning his attention to the whimpering, witless hostage and gathering his will to call the demon gem. The Elite were already uneasy, his army divided. It was more than time to claim his full power.

"Don't," said the madman, barely above a whisper.

Whatever the madman thought he knew mattered less than the vulnerability he betrayed in that single word. Distantly, Ganondorf wondered where he'd learned to speak the language of the People with such nuance and still have that lilting accent.

"How did you know to come to Kharazhin?"

"Because I already tried every other settlement and shrine in striking distance," said the madman, wide blue eyes cold and unwavering. "Let him live with his shame - a far greater curse."

Ganondorf folded his hands over the wide pommel of the sword, resisting the dragging weight of exhaustion. The villagers huddled together against the far side of the corral, as far from the threat of flame as possible. No - he didn't need the gem after all. "As you live with yours?"

"Let them go."

"They owe me a blood debt."

"I will pay it."

Ganondorf turned, hefting the great black sword. The madman dropped to his knees, dry-eyed. He didn't flinch when the chill metal came to rest at the hollow of his throat.

"You will pay with your life, little hero."

"I know what I said," returned the madman.

"Good," said Ganondorf. "Put him in the warded irons. We ride in half a mark."


	6. Spirit

Light from too many unshielded lamps pressed against his eyes, stabbing down clear to his jaw. He craved darkness and rest - he knew better than to indulge yet. He dared not sleep until he'd secured the nameless madman more effectively, and he dared not attempt the spell until he'd eaten, though the thought of food repulsed hm.

Ganondorf knew he'd drawn too much magic this cycle without replenishing it, and the weak spring sunlight in these mountains didn't help. Kharakut manor would keep at least another week, and the fixed camp wards should be sufficient to turn away wild things and scouts until then.

Leilani folded her arms, her silence eloquent.

"There were explosions," he said, grinding the heel of one palm against his aching brow. It didn't help.

"Your servants would prefer you embrace fewer fireflowers, Sun's Ray."

"Hn," he said, tossing his shredded gloves onto her workbench and starting on the laces of his soaked vambrace. "Wasn't that. Salvage what you can. Bring me one of the spares by morning."

"You're wearing the spares, my king."

Right. Because using his gear as part of the enchantments kept the cost reasonable. For certain values thereof.

"Unlace me then, and be quick about it. Requisition whatever and whoever you need to make acceptable repairs."

Leilani raised one dark brow as he turned, giving her access to one of the side plackets. She let the moment stretch - censure of the highest order. Not only did he return his armor to her care in ridiculous condition, but he asked her to assert authority over sisters 20 years her senior and add to her duties those of yet another servant.

He would have laughed, except that would make his head all the worse. She might make an able steward, after the season drew to a close. Already he felt confident she would report matters exactly as they stood, whatever her opinion. Perhaps governor of Vosterkun, with Avish as her First Roc.

"I didn't see Eidalu when we were setting camp-"

"Nor will you," he said, unwinding the boiled leather plate and linen padding from his arm, tossing it onto her workbench without looking.

Another moment - he'd just managed the knot on the right vambrace when she understood, and made her decision. She pried at the soaked cords binding him into the armor without further comment, all efficiency. Bad luck that the storm broke before the tents were up, but even the Darknut couldn't track them in this downpour.

And they did hold reasonably high ground. For certain values thereof, given they were surrounded by mountains.

Leilani stripped him down to his quilted arming suit, glaring her disapproval when he pulled away before she could finish with it. True, it was cold and heavy and thoroughly distasteful, but her lingering over the cinch at the small of his back held no appeal whatever.

He missed Eidalu's complete indifference already. Damn that boy.

"Enough, I can do it faster," he lied. "Send for hot water, and that brandy."

"Of course, Sun's Ray," she said, but her expression was anything but obedient. "Shall I bring a tray-"

"We feast victory at moonrise," he snapped, stalking toward the south end of the tent, pushing aside the hanging partitions with irritation. It would be nice to have a door. Or time to retreat to what passed for private space on campaign.

For a week.

In truth it took him twice as long to peel himself out of the sodden wool and linen than usual, and that was even after slicing through the impossible spiral lacing down each sleeve of the coat and half the knots on the drawstrings of his linens.

He tried not to even _look_ at the sleeping platform as he pulled on a fresh singlet of finely knit lowland wool and heavy silk loincloth. The whisper of gossip on the other side of the curtains pressed his temper, but when Leilani rattled the bell and bead curtain to announce herself, he was already shrugging into a long black caftan.

She collected the sodden mess of his discarded clothing from the chair he'd thrown it over, nattering about feast preparations. He ignored her, working instead to find and slice free the stitches keeping his hair confined. How he would restore it to proper order alone, he wasn't yet certain.

A puzzle to solve after he'd shaven.

Leilani lingered, frowning at him by way of the greenish reflection of his looking-glass.

"You may go," he snapped.

"And what shall I tell Farou, Sun's Ray?"

"Whatever you like," he said, annoyed that he hadn't caught the question. Or who Farou was that they expected an answer from him. "So long as it takes you elsewhere."

Leilani hitched the heavy bundle higher, chewing her lip. "And the petitioners?"

Damn. "I said we would feast, did I not?"

"Of course Sun's Ray, which is why Farou begs the grace to hear the King's wish. She trained beside Varesh, O Great One, but she has never led a kitchen-"

Right. Because when his valet fell, so did Tareil, the underchef he'd selected. Her bonded partner. Damn.

"And Farou is who? A rank apprentice?" He growled, but she stood her ground. "Nevermind. Beef then, served sweet. Have her roast whatever fresh goods we have, and I expect butter and honey at my table."

"And the petitioners, O My King?"

"Tell them to bring tribute before me at the feast if they have the courage to face me direct. I will manage my own appointments hereafter."

Leilani dipped a shallow bow, but her tone underscored her disapproval. "Your strength is our greatest treasure, O Great Ganondorf - to be entrusted with its safekeeping the highest of honors, of which your servants endeavor to be worthy."

He snorted, trying not to laugh and set his head to throbbing any worse. He tossed the little shears onto the dressing table, shaking out his disheveled braids. The petitioners would eat her alive trying to get to him.

"Your loyalty does you credit," he said, meeting her eye through the reflection. She was sweating with nerves, but she didn't flinch. "You don't want that job, girl."

"I think only of your welfare, Sun's Ray. May it never be said your command of your servants is less than perfect."

She had a point. He didn't need anything else undermining his authority, even if it meant entrusting her - or another like her - with more duties than he wished.

Still. She seemed so young.

"Set out one blue lantern then," he said, drawing the golden key to his jewel box from the ether. "The second, after two marks, and bring me a full report on the prisoner then. We will consider matters over the feast."

She had no free hand to accept the key - rather than drop her burden, she took it in her teeth and bowed her way out.

Spirit indeed.


	7. Feast

Ganondorf savored the complicated burn of brandy on his tongue, watching the play of lantern-light over the revelry. The warriors' mirth held more than a little fury in it, accelerated further by an abundant harvest of stolen wine. Veterans nearly to a hand, and still the disaster of Karazhin sunk its venom into their hearts.

The demon gem muttered from its prison - he should have burned them all for violating the negotiations so egregiously - and then having the arrogance to hide the coward in the aftermath. To shield him from just vengeance. They should all have burned with their pathetic town, as Eidalu and Tareil burned with poison in their veins. Then at least the fools would have been useful.

Death energy was bitter as willow and aconite, but effective.

Ganondorf set the brandy aside in favor of another honey-cake. It wasn't even near the glory of Varesh's nut-meat pastries, but it was good all the same, laced with candied ginger from one of the tribute towns. It did not soothe his temper, but it was fuel, desperately needed.

There was not enough honey in all of Vosterkun to restore half the magic he'd used in the attempt to evade the madman. Who found him anyway. Who knew impossible secrets, and hinted at others. Who answered every question with a riddle. Who watched him feast with his warriors, jaw set, silent, resolute, though he'd been strung up on the central tent pole for hours now as merely one more prize to celebrate.

Ganondorf ran his fingers over the jewelry spread out on his table. Green garnets and bright enameled gold, all fashioned the likeness of young storehouse snakes. A complete set, an artisan's masterwork. Pectorals and cuffs, rings and a great set of cloak brooches, earloops and haircombs, all charmed for peace and healing.

He'd worn these for many of Nialet's visits - at first because she loved all things green, and later to ease the aftermath of miscarriage. He didn't bring them on campaign, because they were more beautiful than sturdy. Potions and surgery were more efficient for purely physical wounds anyway.

Yet somehow, the madman had stolen them. From his locked treasury. In the hidden fortress. In the sand sea.

Perhaps the blindingly powerful spirit empowering the painted mask belonged to a divine thief, a rival of the gem? He'd tried asking. The gem gave no answer, and the mask doubled his headache. He knew better than to even touch the thing again without more information.  
Which, clearly, only the madman held.

The demon gem muttered.  
He could have burned the townspeople anyway, once the boy was safely chained.

Except maybe not.  
Just because he hadn't tested his bonds _yet_ didn't mean anything. A mage of such power he could walk through fire unscathed, destroy an enchanted weapon with no apparent effort, and escape from impossible circumstances until he chose to allow it - he would be a fool to underestimate the boy. No doubt whatever he would have done _something_ if Ganondorf failed to honor their dire bargain.

And then he'd never have discovered an artifact powerful enough to make the demon gem demand its destruction.

The madman watched him, his wide blue eyes revealing none of his secrets. Of which there were surely many. The First had taken turns questioning the man, and he wore the marks of their frustration with complete indifference.

Ganondorf settled back against the cushions, letting the petitioner on his left - Sidoo -lay out the main course. It smelled good enough, but his stomach still turned at the thought. Her partner Marish, to his right, poured more brandy for him, delivering it to his hand with far more touch than the act warranted. He let her hands slide over his arm, across his chest, trying to relax into her touch.

The madman watched.

Marish seemed to enjoy the contrast of wool and silk, velvet and gold bullion - which was fine. So did he. And her appreciative touch _was_ pleasant. That wasn't the problem.

Sidoo preferred to rest her hand on his knee whenever the opportunity offered, but their request had been most specific. They sought far more of him than this - and he didn't precisely mind that either. The tribute they offered was in excellent proportion to the elaborate - and explicit - details of their petition.

Any other time, he would have been more diverted. Perhaps as the week unfolded - and his headaches withdrew - their pursuit of his attentions would gain more charm. They seemed to enjoy encouraging him - drawing out the rituals might well serve their needs as much as his own.

It certainly seemed to capture the madman's interest.  
Which interest in turn amused his warriors.

No doubt the man understood the bawdy jokes at his expense, but he paid them no attention whatever. His eyes remained fixed on his captor and all that passed at his table. He made no attempt to speak unless addressed directly, nor did he display any sign of either fatigue nor distaste for his condition.

Amusing.  
And annoying.

It was beyond impossible that he could be anything near as indifferent as he liked to appear. The sheer effort (and nevermind the fortune) necessary to interfere with every raid this season beggared belief. No sane creature would expand half so much effort for a cause which commanded their full passions.

Yet no mad thing possessed such perfectly just arrogance, nor such effortless control over strange and fell magics.

Ganondorf toyed with his brandy, studying the one other artifact his Elite had liberated from the captive. A kind of stone flute, which the demon gem wanted given to it as fervently as it wanted the mask destroyed. The man carried nothing else on him but his clothing - and less of that, now. One of the ten-year archers had laid claim to his worn black boots, and Ganondorf hadn't seen any reason to stop her.

What matter old boots, when the man carried such treasures?

Somewhere in the middle of slogging through the meal, some minor argument led to thrown bread at the other end of the tent. Which, of course, escalated. Ganondorf ignored it - they could afford a little waste now, and better they smash bowls of spiced fruit than anything more important. The melee spread - and the madman ignored the chaos to watch him instead. Even when one of the five year lances dumped a cup of wine across his front, he only sighed.

It was an accident - but the warriors howled in approval. A tracker brought another cup of wine, pouring it over his blonde head, soaking his shirt further. Someone suggested he might be hungry too. An archer who was old enough to know better picked up the nearest dish and brought it over so they could smear that over his face and chest as they ‘fed’ him.

Ganondorf watched.

The question of what madness moved behind those unreadable blue eyes captivated the entire company - a ten-year whose name he couldn’t remember hopped onto a table.

“If he’s not hungry, and he’s not thirsty - our guest must be _bored!_ Sisters, have you a song?”

Wild cheering followed, and a slurred but enthusiastic rendition of _What He’s For_. Complete with dancing. Sidoo and Marish had the presence of mind not to join in - but they did laugh. Especially when the bolder women teased a gasp from their captive.

The madman’s eyes never left his.

Sidoo’s hand crept up his thigh, and Marish leaned against him as she grew bolder in her caresses. By unspoken agreement they timed their advances to compliment the wild dancing - a distressingly effective tactic, despite the headache. He growled his irritation and reached for his brandy again as Marish slipped her fingers under the placket of his crimson tunic. The madman licked his lips - but surely that was because of the handsome archer stealing the laces from his own ruined gray shirt.

First Lance Dashil interrupted the song a little short of the ninth verse, chiding the others for their poor hospitality. “Our guest is too pretty for such coarse habits. Can't you recognize a fine gentleman when you steal one?”

Everyone laughed - especially when she made the madman turn his head to show off the bruises he’d collected earlier that day. She smiled at him as she did it, combing his wine-soaked hair out of his eyes. “Pity that pale skin shows every little blemish. If only he took a little more care to preserve his beauty he might even earn his keep.”

He glanced at her only briefly.

She slapped him. Hard.

A murmur of interest moved through the tent as he worked his jaw, tossing his head to get his hair out of his eyes again. The warded chains rattled with his movement, but otherwise he remained silent.

Dashil stalked around him, kicking stray treasures and forgotten cups out of her way. One of the scouts suggested a bath to restore his charms. Another agreed he’d be better without the rags. A third unwound her partner’s gauzy, glittery shawl and waved it at Dashil.

She took it, lifting the fine cloth so the scattered gold threads trapped in the weave caught the lamplight. “Shall we see if we can make him half as pretty as us?”

The warriors cheered, and Dashil resumed her circuit, meeting his gaze over the madman’s shoulder. She grinned wide, but her eyes were flat and hollow.  
She had yet to mourn Eidalu.

Ganondorf raised his cup to her and drank.

The madman drew a hissing breath, leaving no doubt he understood the gesture.

“Strip him,” Dashil ordered.

Her unit cheered, tripping over each other in their haste to obey. With the chains still in place, they had to cut his clothing off of him, and they teased him with their blades. Within heartbeats his breath quickened, and sweat stood out on his brow, but he did not flinch. Even when Dashil herself cut away his breechclout. The warriors whistled and cheered, calling for his chains to be let down so they could get a better look.

Ganondorf made no move whatever to allow his release.

Dashil scolded them for such impatience, and tied the borrowed shawl around the captive’s narrow hips. The effect was the opposite of modest, especially as she made sure the knot fell to the side of his troubles along his left hip, under his odd scar. Too clean to be a battle wound, perfectly following the arc of muscle underneath.

A few scouts scattered to gather supplies, and one of the ten-years returned to her komuz. Ganondorf picked at the remains of his meal, watching the women decorate their captive. They were right - he could be beautiful, with proper care. His hair was too short to dress properly, but someone tied a gold veil behind his ears to make it seem longer, and several others loaned glass beads and gold chains to drape him with. Powder from the Kharazin spoils muted the red-purple marks of his misadventures, and a heavy border of kohl lent a smouldering elegance to those impossible blue eyes.

He could have resisted their efforts - any other Hylian man would have howled about the humiliation - attempted to dodge their brushes and render their artistry absurd. The madman pretended obedience instead, adjusting at the directions of the women to make their work easier.

One of them tied a bright shawl around his chest to mimic a breastband, teasing him for his labored breaths. He seemed to ignore her - but his lashes fluttered when she trailed her nails down his back.

Dashil noticed it too.

She stepped in to add a heavy belt of gold-plated brass chains and dozens of blue rupees, pretending to difficulty with the clasp. The madman bared his teeth as his flesh answered the tease in his stead, only provoking more amusement. Dashil wound her fist in the chains binding the madman to the tent pole.

"Let's see if he tastes as good as he looks,” she said.

"Ripe and ready he is,” called the kamuz player.

"Yeah - just _look_ at that virtue-" cried another with a whistle.

Marish snickered, repeating a tasteless joke about the _little_ follies of youth.

Sidoo snuck her hand under the long tail of his tunic, teasing her partner about her appetite as she indulged a discreet inquiry.

Ganondorf frowned. "That's enough."

Sidoo pouted - but not only did she not remove her hand, she traced the curve of him through the cloth of his trousers, clicking her tongue when he twitched.

One of the other lances slid her hand down the side of the captive’s face and licked her fingers theatrically. "Salted just right for to roast," she said.

"And he'll talk for us _now_ \- oh yes -" said one of the First.

Dashil pressed her hips against the captive’s side, purring in his long ear as he tightened his jaw, blinking a little too often. "It's time and more we had our trifle, don’t you think, ladies?"

Ganondorf set his empty cup down a little heavier than he needed to, ignoring Marish’s efforts to reach his ear with her tongue. "I said, enough."

Dashil cast him a heavy look over one bare shoulder, her voice pitched to carry as she pulled the boy tighter. "You promised us a feast, O Great Ganondorf.”

"He won’t mind,” snickered one of the scouts as Dashil set her teeth on his ear.

He sucked a shaking breath, and the women laughed at his deepening blush and the tenting of the gold-threaded shawl.

“Asking for it anyway,” said another.

“That and more,” put in another lance with a lewd gesture. “Show him what Hylian cowards are good for.”

Sidoo and Marish caught his mood, pulling back without comment when he tensed to stand. He unfolded in one fluid motion just as Nabooru taught him so many years ago, too annoyed to properly enjoy its impact. “ _Enough_. The boy is _mine_.”

"Which makes him ours," said Dashil, but her eyes didn’t match her flippant tone.

"We'll get him ready for you," said her second, grabbing the captive’s ass.

He bit his lip, fighting to maintain his indifferent mask as his flesh answered their teasing in spite of his efforts. He ducked his head a little, looking up through his lashes - not at his tormentors - but at Ganondorf.  
As he had all night.

"Train him well,” sang the komuz player.

"Yeah - proper respect-" said another scout.

"Touch him again and it you’ll be in chains next,” he said, lowering his voice as he stepped over the low table.

Dashil grinned, running her left hand down the madman’s chest. "Promise?"

Laughter rippled through the tent.

Ganondorf took a single step, and the warriors pulled back with a titter of nervous laughter. "Hands. Off."

Except Dashil.  
Who made a great show of licking the madman’s cheek.

The tent fell silent at the resounding crack of his open hand descending in rebuke. Dashil stumbled, pulling the madman’s borrowed finery askew and making his chains rattle. She ran her tongue over her teeth as she absorbed the sting.

The madman rolled his shoulders back, waiting.

Ganondorf studied Dashil as she straightened with a wicked grin. Her movements remained too precise for her to be truly drunk - and though she had a reputation for fierce wit, she had no record of rebellion. She was one of the better fireflower keepers - he thought he remembered Nabooru saying something about assigning Dashil to the training cadre next season.

She held his eye as she pulled the tail of the gold-threaded shawl, loosening the tenuous knot securing it around the madman’s slender hips.

A hum of anticipation rose around them as he wrapped his hand around her throat.

She licked her lips.

Images flickered through his mind, too rapid to focus on any one. He couldn’t hear the tent over the chaos of her thoughts. But he felt her move - she pulled the gauzy fabric free - and he twisted, shoving her to the ground away from the half-naked madman.

The silence pressed heavy on him - every eye in the tent pierced him through. The demon gem murmured a thousand punishments.

Marish and Sidoo rose swiftly at his command, their beautiful long hair draping over opposite shoulders as they bowed.

“Thrash any fools who attempt to steal from me,” he said.

“As you command, Sun’s Ray,” they said in unison as Dashil struggled to her feet.

He wound his fist in her high horsetail, pulling her up short. “You will obey.

Dashil laughed, thin and harsh. “Make me.”


	8. Discipline : part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content note:  
> This chapter (in both parts) explores a Risk Aware Consensual Kink scenario with peril themes, shame/humiliation, sexual frustration, light bondage, and sensation/impact play. 
> 
> Oh, and the dom in this scenario is male*.
> 
> I think that's comprehensive... I think...  
> Let me know if I missed one!
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> *It's Gan. The Dom is Gan. Your surprise level is excessive, I'm sure.

The rain soaked through the waxed canopy strung between the feast tent and his own, dripping in so many places it almost made conditions worse. At least his Elite had cut enough branches to make a kind of thick, crude mat so he didn't need to use his magic to avoid the mud. 

He steered Dashil ahead of him on the windward side so every chill gust would soak her through. The walk wasn't a long one - but between the miserable weather and her artless stumbling off the edge, by the time he dragged her past the Elite into the shelter of his tent, she looked every inch of her disgrace.

Leilani and two archers he didn't know looked up from their work, expressions carefully guarded. Dashil grinned like a cat in mint even as he tightened his fist in her beautiful red hair.

"Strip," he said. "I will not have you defiling my rugs with your dripping filth."

Dashil laughed, and one of the archers whistled as she shimmied out of her mud-splattered clothing. He glared at all of them - Dashil was making every effort to entice her captor and her audience, and thus doing her best to undermine the entire purpose of this exercise. It was important that the warriors understand she was not here as that sort of petitioner, lest their discipline erode further. 

"Three blue lanterns," he growled. "The petitions of Marish and Sidoo are accepted. They are occupied guarding the hostage until further notice - therefore unless the enemy mounts an attack I expect not to be disturbed."

Leilani frowned, flicking a glance at Dashil's nakedness. "For how long, my King?"

"Until I am done," he said, twisting Dashil's long hair around his fist until she was forced halfway to kneeling at his feet. She grinned even as she wobbled and flinched for the discomfort, pretending indifference to the cold. "Let it be known the next fool who defies me will pay an even higher price than this... example."

Leilani paled as he wrenched Dashil to her feet again, driving her ahead of him into the depths of his tent. His headache surged again as he passed through the edge of the wards on his workroom. He could chain her in there and let her sulk - gagged, perhaps, so he could sleep. The others would spin their own stories to explain the silence, and he could deal with that once he'd heard Leilani's report in the morning. Or preferably, afternoon.

Ganondorf paused between the sleeping platform and the workroom, weighing the choice. Dashil used the moment to tip her head back and howl a victory cry, stealing the choice from him without any consciousness of what she did.

It wasn't fair to hit people for being stupid when it wasn't their fault.  
He hit her anyway.  
It wasn't just about being stupid. A half dozen cloth partitions and the convenient fiction of selective deafness was all they had of privacy. 

He dragged her behind him through the dim room, cursing as he threw back the lid of his red and gold chest. No doubt her voice carried to the dining tent and well beyond - she would need to be heard even further, now. He ignored her provoking speculation, digging out a gilded steel collar, still threaded with its matching heavy chain. 

"Oh yes, my king," she purred at him, though her eyes remained flat and expressionless. "Show me the depth of my miserable place - use me-"

"You have no place asking anything of me," he said, snapping the collar in place. He untangled his hand from her hair, shoving her off balance. "You will obey your lord and master, and you will regret every act of treachery and defiance."

"I beg you to correct me," she said, licking the blood from her split lip. 

Ganondorf coiled the lead chain in his hands, bending to growl in her ear. "Do you have any idea how grave your peril?"

She groped him by way of answer, a calculated, possessive sliding and squeezing of heavy flesh. Dashil had never petitioned him, and he might have forgiven her curiosity had any other circumstance brought her into his space. Under the weight of the headache and the ugliness of necessity the only firmness he had left was owed entirely to the tautness of the loincloth. But by her hum of approval she didn't realize - and he didn't see a reason to tell her. _Yet._

"I didn't give you permission to touch me," he murmured as he stood, looping the chain around her body, pinning her arms to her sides.

Dashil grinned, unrepentant. "I am only anticipating, my king, that you will want to use my errors for your pleasure."

"Your weakness disgusts me," he returned, collecting a set of jeweled manacles from the chest and stalking toward the sleeping platform. She stumbled after him, pulled along too quickly to untangle herself. "I should give you exactly what you've asked for."

"Yes-" Dashil moaned the word as he threaded the chain through a steel ring set into the edge of the platform. "Use me as I'd have used the boy. Take what you want - fuck me until I beg for mercy and then fuck me _harder._ "

Ganondorf locked the manacles to the end of the chain. "You don't deserve such attention."

"You don't have to go easy on me," she said, twisting to unwrap the loops of chain. "I spar with the Elite back home, you know. Spent last winter with Oraani, and she was as vicious off the field as on. I've heard the rumors, how you're big enough to plow a woman helpless in a single thrust."

"Hn," he said, catching one wrist. He'd heard the rumors too. Vicious lies, many of them, spread by petitioners jealous of their claim on his time, others by veterans for the express purpose of teasing the young. But Oranni - she'd fallen in Kharazhin. An accident. Rear guard for the team assigned to take down the mill after Ibas' son violated the truce - caught by a splintered timber flung farther than they expected.

"I heard how it hurts for days to be opened by the Sun's Thorn," she said as he encircled that strong brown wrist in steel and gold and topaz. "How careful you must have to be with the petition-blessed, when your glory carves a hollow inside that can never be filled-"

"Foolish woman! Do you really think," he thundered, "That you will _ever_ have petition rights restored to you after what you've done?"

Dashil's smile held nothing of mirth. "Punish me until I beg your forgiveness, O my King. Take me like a Hylian whore-"

"That's what you want, is it?" Ganondorf cut her off, leaving the other manacle empty and spinning her around so the chain jerked taut. To stay upright she had to allow her left arm to be wrenched out behind her. He unfastened the toothed clasps and woolen ties keeping her hair confined, tossing them away into the shadows. She shook her head to resettle the damp waves, and he circled around her, close, draping the glorious fall of it over her right shoulder. "You have not the slightest idea what misery you court."

She cried out when he hooked his smallest fingers through the heavy gold loops piercing the bloom of her areolas and pulled. She rose on her toes in a vain effort to ease the intensity of the sensation. 

"Yes, I do," she hissed between her clenched teeth.

"You would be consumed entirely," he said, releasing the piercings only to engulf her magnificent breasts in his hands, squeezing the tender flesh. "Overwhelmed by my power, used and discarded as befits honorless filth. To be taken for my amusement alone is to be conquered, broken."

"I am at your service," she began, but he shoved her away. She stumbled, and he advanced, looming over her as she retreated. She tripped over the slack in the chain and he caught her by the arm, hard enough to leave a bruise. He dragged her to the edge of the platform, making her bow over it. The angle highlighted dozens of pale scars fanning out over her back, neat and thin and regular.

"For your trespass I can strip away your Name," he said, dragging his hands over the curve of her ass with enough force her own softness pressed into the honeyed valley and made her moan. "I have the power to make you nothing but a pound of flesh to impale whenever and however it amuses me. Yes?"

She moaned.

He struck her ass with his open hand, both hard and loud. "What did I tell you about dripping on my rugs?"

She rocked her hips back and up, slurring something unintelligible.

"I didn't give you permission to make a mess," he said, striking her again. She moaned, and he struck her harder. "What is going to get through to you?"

"Fill me-" she said, winding her hands in the blankets.

He punctuated his rebuke with three more strikes. "You're thinking about _fucking_ when you should be thinking about your _shame_. You will _obey_."

"Make me-" she said, twisting to look over her shoulder. She had a fierce beauty made only richer by the marks of his hands and the bright gold confining her. 

"I prefer my meat _tender_ ," he said, pulling back. She stayed mostly where he'd put her as he shrugged out of his long black kaftan and folded it over his vanity chair. He watched her reflection in the green glass mirror, stripping off most of his jewelry. Without Eidalu looking after his things, better not to risk what finery he had left on this campaign. He'd been forced to leave the madman's artifacts and thefts behind, but he didn't have the energy to summon them now. The green garnets might have helped the work he was about to do, but it might serve just as well to have Leilani fetch them afterwards. "Meditate on the doom you've courted. The humility you ought to show. Think of how I will break you - and know you are too miserable and low a thing to interest me. Your shameless display eroded the work of more loyal hands. I had every intention of filling them both tonight, until your pathetic interruption."

"Take me instead-"

"I would sooner bed a poe."

Dashil sighed, and twisted to sit down on the edge of the platform with a wince. She sighed again as he stripped off his long red tunic, and even in the reflection he could see how her eyes wandered over his body. "How can I please you, my king?"

He debated the wisdom of keeping singlet and trousers as he bound back his hair with a gold ribbon. Both would need laundered if he did - like almost everything else. The push towards Kharazin hadn't allowed much time for maintenance - but now they had the madman. They could rest here, wait out the rain. If he spent the following day with Marish and Sidoo - if he could get some sleep in between - he wouldn't really need any of it, and Leilani had enough sense to delegate that work and keep her own focus on repairing his armor. He plucked the strop from its hook beside the mirror, snapping it in his hands. "I expected better service from you. Your record _was_ a good one. All now wasted in your pathetic weakness."

Dashil licked her lips as he turned back to her, hollow eyes focussed on the heavy leather. "I heard you ordered fifteen for Varesh, that time she gave your honey cakes to that wandering foreigner and lied about it."

"Hardly equivalent," he said, collecting Eidalu's tall stool. He'd pressed it into similar service before, but this would be the last time. 

Dashil licked her lips again, pressing her knees together. "I saw you give Maedra twenty five for sneaking into your tent after you turned her away."

"Do not envy her," he said, placing the stool just barely within the reach of her chains. He remembered now a comment Eidalu made once about her sister's habits. Sneering at ignorant camp gossip which painted her as cold as Snowpeak itself. "She paid not only in flesh but in rank for her folly."

She tossed her head, her expression flat. "She was stupid anyway."

"Exactly," he said. He crooked a finger, and pitched his voice to carry. "You were an honored First Lance, yet when truly challenged, proved so weak you would have vented your selfish lusts on my hostage, spoiling his value. Not only without my leave, but with complete disregard for your orders. What use are you to me now?"

She rose at his wordless command, crossing the small space silent but for the soft clatter of the heavy chain. She leaned across the stool, tucking her left hand behind her and grasping the chain for balance. Her position put her eyes not much above his navel. 

"Vent your fury upon me," she said, dropping her gaze. She licked her lips.

Oh yes, she was most certainly familiar with restraint. 

"Ignorant fool," he said, resisting the temptation to push back at the pressure behind his eyes. He could not afford to show the slightest weakness. He lashed out with the strop, cracking it across her bare back. "How many for insubordination to a Roc?"

She cried out, startled.

"Answer. How many?" He struck again, angled to mark a fresh place. This time she was more prepared, and only hissed as she absorbed the sting.

"Five - but you are greater than any Roc - all the Rocs-"

He whipped the strop around so it fell even harder the third time. "How many for getting caught thieving?"

"Ah - depends on the theft-"

"Wrong answer," he said.

"Nine," she gasped through the whistle and crack of the strop. "Nine lashes for a theft from the People, one for each ray of the sun."

He pulled back to give her a moment of rest, letting the strop dangle from his fingers. "Hn, and for trespass?"

"Four."

"Treason?"

"Fifty, my king-" she began, licking her split lip as he snapped the leather taut between his hands.

"Sedition?"

"Fifty, but-"

"Fostering rebellion?"

She resettled her weight, bracing herself for the next strike. "Also fifty."

"How many for all these crimes together, salted with blasphemy?"

"Why not," she said, flippant in spite of everything. "Make it an even two hundred?"

"Hn, why not, indeed." He laid the strop over the seat of the stool and caressed her cheek. She frowned, confused as he corrected a loose curl, smoothing it back among the rest. "How many have you had?"

"Um," she said, distracted by the lazy whorls he was drawing down her neck, along the edge of the collar. "Four?"

Ganondorf smiled at her, and for the first time all night he saw uncertainty in her eyes. "Wrong answer," he said.

"Ah - ten?"

He ignored the flaring pain as he opened a tiny rift in the ether and withdrew a slender steel rod made of twenty-one smaller rods, with a bright red silk tassel threaded through handle which bound them all together. Dashil swore under her breath - even if she'd never seen such a tool before, she knew at once what it was for. 

"None," he said, twirling the flail so the rods whistled in warning. 

She swallowed hard, fidgeting as he circled around behind her. "Forgive me, O my King-"

"You're dripping on my rug again," he drawled, enjoying the fine balance of the flail.

"Forgive me," she began. "It is only - the glory of the Sun's Ray-"

 _Thwip-smack_ across her inviting ass, and her flattery gave way to a primal howl.

"Count," he suggested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: do not try this at home kids. 200 lashes with any reasonably heavy tool can be lethal. 40 with a moderate one can be lethal. Far less than that can be lethal when done inexpertly or on a participant that is in any way not in prime condition. The characters in this scenario are experts in RACK play, and enthusiastically consenting - and the peril is as much a part of the play as the delivery, as will be further explored in part two, if you should choose to continue reading.


	9. Discipline : part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content note:  
> This chapter (in both parts) explores a Risk Aware Consensual Kink scenario with peril themes, shame/humiliation, sexual frustration, light bondage, and sensation/impact play.
> 
> Oh, and the dom in this scenario is male*.
> 
> I think that's comprehensive... I think...  
> Let me know if I missed one!
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> *It's Gan. The Dom is Gan. Your surprise level is excessive, I'm sure.

She shivered, but she obeyed. Too well - within a few strokes she had the feel of the flail, and absorbed each successive strike with little more than a wince and measured breath. She rose to the challenge of his order, counting faithfully though her voice did waver.  
A little.  
Eventually. 

Her rigid discipline spoke of long practice, and he wrestled with frustration and impatience as she endured. The demon gem began to whisper - but it was a half-hearted, distracted muttering. He pushed it away, pouring his attentions into building a steady rhythm. He marked her flesh over and over, anointing her back, her ass, her thighs until they bloomed with pain. 

Still she refused to bend - so he poured another measure of his strength into his arm. By the time he pulled unfettered and unregarded yowls from her, he'd begun to sweat despite the chill. She leaned on the stool for support now, face pressed against her right arm, consumed by the challenge. She probably didn't even realize the last strike broke skin. There was hardly a thumblength of unmarked flesh from neck to knee, except for the thinnest places directly over bone. 

Her strength had become dangerously brittle. Such reckless behavior must be corrected before the shards of her willful destruction caused even greater damage. Losing her to the poison could still be used to restore a measure of his authority over the camp, but he didn't want such a beautiful spirit to go to waste. 

He trailed the steel rods up her thigh, tracing the tangled path of bright rivulets flowing from her center. She moaned as he slid the warm metal between her parted thighs and up, pressing the whippy shafts against her swollen folds. He heard the faint song of bells from the other side of the partition - he drew back and struck her squarely over the meatiest part of her ass, flinging glittering droplets across her back. 

She cried out the correct number - but she slurred. He seized on the opportunity, growling a reprimand as blood welled up from the shallow wound. 

She lifted her head with mumbling confusion. He rolled the tips of the flail through the blood, holding it in the light, so she could see how the wet steel glistened. 

"Now look what you've done," he said. "What did I tell you?"

"To count-" 

He cut her off with another careful strike. "Wrong answer."

"To - to not make a mess?"

"Hn." He traced the curve of her spine, and she shivered. "You brought this on yourself, with your filthy, pathetic rebellion."

"Correct me, my king."

He struck as wide and shallow as possible across her shoulders. Her lovely skin split again, and she howled the next - unfortunately correct - number.

"Wrong answer," he drawled, counting heartbeats in the aftershock of another stroke that drew a cry, drinking her in with his gaze. The strength of her spirit blossomed in the confinement of a clear and simple task, in complete surrender to another will, given a focus apart from her own thoughts. Again he caught the sound of bells - one of Leilani's helpers, no doubt, too curious for her own good.

"But - my king-"

"If only you could follow orders, none of this would be happening, would it?" He tapped her thigh lightly, looking for a safer target.

"But - I am counting - I haven't missed any - I am sure that was the-"

He cut her off with another strike. "Before that. What did I tell you?"

"To - to not make a mess," she gasped.

He struck. "Before that."

"That - the strap didn't count?"

He struck. "Before that."

"I am useless to you - miserable-" 

He struck. "Why?"

"I - I am weak-"

He struck. "And?"

"Willful -"

He struck. "Before that."

"Covetous -"

He struck again, swearing silently. The truth she refused to face could not be run from - yet she preferred to destroy herself than change course, even now. "You should have known better."

"Yes," she hissed. "Should have-"

He struck. "Should have _what?_ What did I tell you to do?"

"Stupid - worthless - can't even count," she muttered, curling over the support of the stool.

"Answer," he said, flicking blood from the flail so it splattered down her side. "What were your orders, Dashil? _What did I tell you to do?_ "

She moaned, and he gave her a count of five to answer. She didn't - so with a blasphemous oath he hooked the leg of the stool with his foot and dumped her to the ground. He snapped the tips of the flail across her hip, raising more welts. 

"Are you become an idiot or do you think I have? Answer the question. What did I tell you, before?"

"To stop," she whimpered, dragging herself to his feet. "I deserve it - It's all my fault - if I - if I just hadn't been stupid- I deserve it - all of it - my fault - I failed -"

Ganondorf twirled the flail so it sang, shedding a mist of sweat and blood over both of them as he listened to her rambling confessions. Reaching no farther back than the feast. 

" _Why_ did you fail? You, an honored First Lance," he said, using the tips of the flail to lift her hair away from the lacerations woven across her back. "The Exalted put your name forward for training master - your career was bright - your victories brighter still - all to hide the truth that you were never good enough? That you would betray us all?"

She wound her hands in the hem of his loose trousers, mumbling something incoherent as she pressed her forehead to his boot. So long as she refused to admit pain, the poison would only fester.

He weighed the cost of attempting to redirect her with magic, feeling the edges of the sore hollowness around his diminished power. The demon gem was a blunt instrument at the best of times, and the stripped-down puppets Koume and Kotake made from deserters and criminals likewise lacked elegance. He could preserve her fighting strength with either method, or gamble away more of his energy on a piece of theatre that had exactly as much chance of moving her as the flail. 

The sound of bells on the other side of the partition decided him. _What use a fireflower lancer with no more volition than a Stalfos?_ If she did not bend before morning, the demon gem would still be waiting, and he could salvage whatever remained. 

A silent Word woven in the air, and the stool exploded. 

The wild lightstrike might as well have split his own head open along with it - his vision clouded as the splinters flew, and the bright shattering pop of cracking glass told him the blast - or its target - flew wider than he intended. 

Which, actually, was perfect. 

Dashil cried out, cowering at his feet - and he let her, until the throbbing misery of his headache let him see again.

"Look at what you've done," he said, stooping to turn her head with the flail. "I gave you orders - you had only to obey. And _this_ is the service I get from you."

"Forgive me, my king," she said with hurried breath. A thread of true feeling at last, even if it wasn't the one she most needed. "I don't understand - I didn't - I can't! - I haven't any magic - I swear to you-"

"What use has anyone for a faithless, filthy, clumsy wretch," he growled, flicking his wrist to snap the flail - lightly - against her cheek. She yelped - and cringed away from a second tap from the humming steel.

_At last._

Without another word he pulled away, stepping over the chain and the wreckage of the brightly painted stool. The rugs of his sleeping quarters glittered with the scattered shards of his mirror and some number of bottles from the vanity. He ignored Dashil's impotent pleas for forgiveness, counting backwards from three hundred as he stalked from the room without pause.

She wailed in despair when he flung back the layers of beaded and belled curtains.

Ganondorf ignored this also, stepping out of her line of sight and into that of their not-so-hidden audience. He bit his tongue to keep from laughing - it would only hurt, and undermine his work. He didn't need any magic to know the shape of Leilani's thoughts. 

She glared at him as he opened the clever little cabinet clock on his chest of books, and set its pendulum in motion. The click of gears wove with the discord of Dashil's desolate keening and Leilani's borrowed bells as she stabbed another stitch in his quilted arming coat. 

She was wearing every piece of his green and enameled gold summerstone snake jewels.  
Sitting in his chair.  
At his desk.  
With _his_ teapot steaming on a tray beside her and the remains of his gloves in pieces on top of his papers. 

Next to the mask and flute. 

_Requisition whatever and whoever you need._

He loomed over her to no effect whatever. "Where are your lovely assistants?"

"Elsewhere," she snapped, stabbing another perfect stitch without looking. "As I could not remove the _tyranny_ of distraction from them, I removed _them_ from _it_."

He raised a brow, idly tapping the flail against his thigh. _Two seventy four_.

Her lip curled in disgust as she set another stitch, though she was trembling with fear and fury. 

"Perhaps they too require a lesson in discipline," he said.

"Perhaps the Great Ganondorf prefers to engage his next _glorious battle_ naked," she snarled. "Though it is said truly worthy opponents tend to fight back."

He grinned at her, pouring himself a cup of tea that was at least a quarter honey. "Hn. Report on the captive?"

"He does nothing," she said. "He neither speaks nor moves without an order to do it, and even then exerts himself as little as possible."

Ganondorf sipped his tea, tapping the flail against his thigh. _Two forty eight._ "And has he been given orders that violate mine?"

"If you wanted him pure and innocent, you'd better have put his eyes out," she said. She set another couple stitches. "But no, no one dares touch him now."

He nodded, pouring a second cup of tea, as sweet as the first. _Two thirty one_. "Notice anything when you touched the mask?"

"Aside from that it turned my guts inside out? Sorrow and death," she said, tying off her thread as Dashil moaned and wept alone. "Also it's tied to him somehow."

"Hn - good," he said licking honey from his lips. "Faithful service is not without its hazards, but-"

"Don't speak to me of reward, O my King," she snapped, starting a new thread. 

He nodded to acknowledge the point, drinking his tea in silence. Or - if not precisely silence, the absence of speech, while the clock gave rhythm to Dashil's grief.

_One ninety eight._

"This is an unfamiliar blend," he said, quietly.

"I drugged it," she said.

"You're a terrible liar."

"I _thought_ about drugging it," she grumped. "Really hard."

"Hn," he said, pouring a third - perhaps unwise - cup. "Your devotion to your work sets a standard few could hope to exceed. Where did you get this?"

"A whole bag of it fell out of the mask when I picked it up," she said with a shrug. "Link - that is, the hostage - said its from the great forest, and that you would need it soon."

He frowned. How could anything fall out of a wooden mask, even if it did house a thief-spirit? Much less a perfect, priceless blend of dawnflower and brambleberry leaf and goldentree bark and bogberries and souring-root? 

"It isn't really poison, or even sleep-leaf," she sighed, dropping her work in her lap and folding her hands over it. "I checked."

"Remind me never to task you with an assassination," he said, listening to the broken pattern in Dashil's sobs. _One fifty._ "Brew another after this, and if I do not come out for it before it stops steaming, bring it to me."

Leilani frowned, sweeping her eyes over him in wordless rebuke.

He set the empty cup aside, watching her examine him. His headache remained, but it wasn't actively trying to claw his eyes out from inside his head anymore. He dropped his voice too low for Dashil to hear even if she'd been able. "You kept count."

"Someone had to," she shot back.

"Your ears lied to you," he murmured, holding her gaze. "The number is two hundred and ten for anyone who asks."

She frowned, and he gave her a moment to untangle the puzzle.

_One twenty._

"I don't understand," she said, softly. "Is the truth not vicious enough already?"

"There are many truths," he said, holding up the flail so it shone in the lamplight. Dashil's keening sobs gave way to breathless, hiccuping moans. "I will not have fools among my warriors, led to believe her fate anything other than miserable."

Leilani shook her head. "No one could doubt the wretchedness of one in the shadow of the Sun's Ray."

_One hundred one._

"As it should be," he said, turning back toward his work. "It is only from the embrace of shadows that one can begin to understand the light."

He could feel Leilani's eyes on his back as he slipped through the curtains. Dashil knelt in the middle of the wreckage next to the sleeping platform, weeping over splinters of the stool. She looked up only when his shadow fell over her, and she dropped the splinters at once to wrap her arms around his leg and beg him to stay. 

"What did I tell you to do, Dashil?"

"Break me for my trespass O my King," she sobbed. "It was all my fault - I failed - I should have known - I-"

He tucked the flail under her chin to lift her eyes to his. "No - it is time to _bend_. What were your orders this morning outside Kharazhin, Dashil?"

She choked down the threat of another sob, and her answer wavered. "Neutralize the town guard, but-"

"No excuses," he said. "Repeat your orders exactly as given."

She sagged against his knee, stammering an incoherent reply. He stooped to brush her tangled hair back with his free hand, and caught flickering images of Kharazhin in flames. Less chaotic than before, at least, though just as dark.

"Again - repeat your orders, First Lance, and only then will I correct you."

He waited - eventually she managed to stumble through a broken recitation. To neutralize the guard for the negotiating party. To find any Darknut and capture them alive. In the fallout of the broken truce, to destroy the smithy and set charges in the weaver's guild and tavern, and then to join the hunt for the hand that loosed the poison darts.

"Did you obey?"

"Forgive me," she sobbed. "I should have-"

"Did you neutralize the wall guard as I asked?"

"Yes, but-"

"Where were the negotiations?"

"In the square, but-"

"So you were not in the square when it happened."

"No, but-"

"Did you set the charges as I asked?"

"Yes, but-"

"So you did not take down the mill."

"No, but-"

"No excuses," he said. "Which order did you break, Dashil?"

"I touched him," she said at last.

"No," he said, still caressing her hair. "Before that."

She sniffled. "I don't understand- you said to stop, and I-"

"Less disobedience than a clumsy petition. You asked for punishment," he said. "For what shameful betrayal did you need to atone?"

Her answer came in a whisper as the beat of the cabinet clock slowed. "They shouldn't have died."

"No," he agreed, tossing the flail on the sleeping platform. "Nor was it in your power to prevent it."

She argued, denying the truth with her tongue, but she wept the brokenness of her grief and guilt and the treasonous rage she was too loyal to voice: _he_ gave the orders that led to the disastrous raid, and _he_ struck the bargain that denied the People vengeance for the lost.

He lifted her to her feet, gathering her gently to his chest. She gasped at the pain - awake to it at last. He tucked her ear against his chest and combed her disheveled hair through his fingers as he sang for her alone. An old poem about afternoon dreams and evening stories, a song of rest and healing. A memory of wholeness less voiced than breathed.

 _This_ magic came easily, a gentle greenness, no doubt amplified by so many summerstones nearby. Once her flesh began to re-knit in earnest, he tucked his hands under the ledge of her hips and carried her to the sleeping platform. She wound her arms around his neck, burying her face in the soft wool singlet, and he indulged her. He leaned back among the cushions, drawing the softest silk coverlet over them both, wrapping her in warmth and lullabies.

He was on the edge of sleep himself by the time Leilani brought the tea. She poured two cups without comment, heavy with King's Honey, and piece by piece removed her borrowed jewels to adorn him instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: do not try this at home kids. 200 lashes with any reasonably heavy tool can be lethal. 40 with a moderate one can be lethal. Far less than that can be lethal when done inexpertly or on a participant that is in any way not in prime condition. The characters in this scenario are experts in RACK play, and enthusiastically consenting - and the peril is as much a part of the play as the delivery. I have chosen to leave the 'true' number of strikes to your imagination, dear reader, as I am confident you are the highest expert in what number would be most shocking.


	10. Illusions

Rain became sleet by afternoon, pouring over the mountains and rendering even the most sound paths treacherous. Ganondorf relayed orders for game nets to be strung out flanking the camp, and all sections not already handling provision and waste be detailed for repair and inventory.

No few of his people grumbled about it, but they obeyed. Enough of them had campaign experience in the wetlands to remember worse conditions. Cold could be held back more easily than the miasma that rose in wet heat.

Ganondorf paced a circuit in his curtained workroom, listening to the storm. The enchanted firestone in its bowl of sand worked beautifully, driving out the chill entirely, even though he hadn't bothered to dress. The sky-mirror, however, did not. Its inky surface reflected only roiling clouds in every direction for as far as the magic could see. Which was usually clear to Death Mountain.

Usually.

Something had to be wrong with it - no storm could possibly be that large. So he’d unpacked his box of windneedles. They too defied his will, dancing in slow nonsense whorls across their wide, bright tray. Normally, they danced a _little_ , but otherwise arranged themselves in sensible patterns representing the prevailing currents in the three tiers of the heavens above for seven leagues around him.

Normally.

What enchantment could ever hold a rival mage with such power? Leilani reported his hostage slept as little as he did, maybe even less, but made no attempt whatever to escape his bonds. The first was unremarkable: Dashil's ability to sleep well and deeply bound hand and foot wasn’t all too common. In any other circumstance, the latter would hold exactly as much note as the former: he forged all seven pairs of those irons personally not long after he took the War Crown.

One skinny madman with an appetite for danger wasn't exactly the prey he had in mind five years ago.

And yet.

He paused in his circuit, studying the stark features of the painted wooden mask. No record in his possession mentioned such an artifact. That the demon gem feared its power he had no doubt - but it had yet to speak of the madman himself. Perhaps the fell powers he’d witnessed belonged entirely to the mask, and not the man.

But why would either pursue _him_? Why interfere in the affairs of one remote province of the Hylian empire? And how to unwind the man from the object and unlock its secrets for his own use?

The mask gave him no answer. Shining white eyes without pupil or iris seemed to stare through his skin, and carved lips remained fixed in that subtle frown.

Ganondorf wrapped his hand in black silk and held the mask before the lantern, turning it from one side to the other. Lightweight, yet incredibly strong. Stylized on the face of it, yet sculpted with eerie sensitivity on the reverse. Not the slightest glimmer of light passed from one side to the other - the mask had no provision for sight, breath, speech.

A death mask.

For who?

Or what?

 

**_\- o - O - o -_ **

 

Leilani answered every detail of his request before the cabinet clock could measure a full hour. She arranged raw meat and scraped bones on the sideboard, and hung sheltered red lanterns at every point of his tent. His Elite would never voice their questions, but he heard others through the tent walls. Despite the weather, the people saw him demand a nonsense assemblage of things from Kharazhin’s ‘tribute’. They saw division leaders summoned and dismissed. They saw their King stalk abroad at twilight, bloodstained and unabraced.

The faint murmur of speculation following him to the feasting tent amused him. Not quite enough to lessen the sting of sleet on his skin, but he’d seen and endured far worse. No one looking upon him would guess he had any care at all for the elements. Rather, as the current rumor would have it, the elements should take care to avoid _him_.

The madman lifted his fair head when Ganondorf entered. Marish and Sidoo standing guard beside him thumped their spears in salute and withdrew. A handful of officers looked up from their meals to watch him accept a golden plate from Leilani.

“The Name of Dashil is returned to the sands,” he said, pausing to pick up a single curving rib from the plate. Exactly as he asked, Farosh had dressed the rack of raw venison in red Hylian wine thickened with sugar and harissa and whiteroot powder to a perfectly grotesque result. “Any debt or grievance with the one who once possessed it may be petitioned from the crown, and be considered.”

One hiccuped, and scrambled to her feet to leave. Three others paled, gulping their own wine nervously. No one who still watched him found the strength to look anywhere else as he stripped meat from bone and handed the plate back to Leilani.

“The ranks will be reordered for the march to Kharakut. Divide the spoils as usual and be ready to seize victory when the storm breaks.”

Ganondorf smiled at them all, licking his lips. Though he would prefer the richness brought by at least a little fire, the flavor certainly wasn't bad. Leilani followed exactly one step behind and two to his left as he paced around the pile of remaining tribute.

“Oh. One more thing,” he said as half the room eagerly rose to depart. He returned a clean bone to the golden plate and selected another. “We require the arms and armament and whatever else was salvaged of the Elite who once answered to Oraani.”

“No,” said his hostage. Dry. Rasping. Resolute.

Ganondorf raised a brow in the silence, toying with the meat. Every eye in the room followed him as he circled around the chained man.

“Don't push your luck, Desert King,” said the madman. “Let the unhappy dead rest. Their bones cannot bring you what you desire most.”

“Hungry?” Ganondorf offered the dripping meat to his captive. Three days without any real food or drink might not be enough to break him, but even a grain of sand can tip the scales.

“I once had a friend like you,” said the madman, but his inflection suggested a loss more dear. _Where_ did he learn the speech of the sands with such nuance?

“Get used to it,” said Ganondorf with a shrug. “We all did.”

“You _chose_ the War Crown,” said the madman.

“First blood was written in Hylian ink,” Ganondorf snapped. “My people starve for your greed. _That_ for your notion of first blood.”  
  
“And thus you play into their omens of blood and greed, fulfilling all their worst opinions of you.” The madman closed his impossible blue eyes for a moment, squaring his shoulders as much as the chains would allow. “Have you not questioned _why_ Hyrule left Avosgart so poorly defended?”

Ganondorf shrugged and decided to eat what his captive refused. “Why should they indulge the expense of soldiers when they already sent you?”

“They didn't send me,” the man said, opening his eyes. “Nor is this the conquest you crave. Vosterkun is a distraction, an opportunity for Hyrule to weaken upstart rebels and inconveniently independent vassals, pitting one against the other.”

“You are the worst spy who has ever survived the road into my camp,” Ganondorf said, laughing. “Marish - see that he has a bath. His stink offends me.”

 

**_\- o - O - o -_ **

 

Ganondorf paced the confines of his office, annoyed at the weather and the occupied state of his bed, the glare of red and orange lantern light and the delayed laundry, the blood and sweat on his skin and the snarls in his hair, the headaches from lack of sleep and poor food, but most of all, the necessity of all of it.

There must be some leverage he could apply to the madman. A key of some kind. He must want _something_.

Ganondorf wanted a bath, a sharper razor, and his hair properly dressed by someone competent who was also _not him_. Fresh clothes he could live without more easily if he could remain in relative privacy until laundry and repairs were both complete. Which he couldn’t.

The perception of his warriors required careful management. Any serious challenge to his authority demanded answer, of course, but this campaign in particular levied more than any other before it.

In no small part because of Link.

The only person who seemed to understand how truly critical a swift and comprehensive victory was.

Somehow, inexplicably, the man always knew where to be and what to leverage to divert him from his immediate object with a terrifying efficiency. Even in chains.

Why?

What was he after? Why did the man pursue and subvert his work now? What was so precious to command such expense and sacrifice? What made this campaign different?

Ganondorf shied away from the last thought - there was no possible way Link could know _that_. Even truthsight magic had limits. He took great care maintaining the shields around his own mind, and even if he didn't, he’d never actually touched the man.

“And won't,” he growled under his breath, selecting a book at random from the limited selection he could afford to bring on campaign.

Leilani chose that moment to rattle the bell-curtain.

“I'm busy,” said Ganondorf, flipping pages without really even seeing them.

“Forgive me,” she said through the curtain without the slightest inflection of remorse. “You requested tea, Sun’s Ray.”

He rationed out a tiny wisp of power to open the curtain for her by way of apology as he retreated to his desk.

Leilani bowed, laying out a bright tray heavy with not merely tea but a heaping plate of nutmeat cakes as well. Farosh seemed to be finding her strength in the kitchen after all.

“Report,” he said without looking up. He turned another page, dismayed to discover as he traced across the text that the words were upside down. He snapped the book shut in frustration and laid it aside.

Leilani didn't notice - or prudently held her tongue if she did. “Sidoo altered one of her sirwal to the captive’s size, and Marish wants only your word on which essence you would prefer on him.”

Because _of course_ they decided to make an entertainment of his hostage. No doubt they’d painted his face and dressed his hair too. Anticipating his preferences without _quite_ disobeying his orders.

“Spicewood resin and dragonsblood,” said Ganondorf, accepting the first cup of tea. “No - do not bow your way out yet. Sit with me, avadha. Your work will wait for you, patient as stone.”

Leilani made a face, folding herself gracefully - and silently - on the bench across from him.

“Hn,” he said, cradling the blessed warmth of the fine ceramic in his hands. “Do not forget - maintaining your strength and sharpness is among your ongoing tasks. Requisition additional hands as you require them.”

Leilani winced. “As you wish, Sun’s Ray.”

“Although,” Ganondorf mused, tasting the tea. “It may be that you may soon need a more constant... assistant. I will not see your talents wasted.”

Leilani frowned. “I have few for war and less for magic, O my King.”

“The arts of war are not all blade and spear,” he said. “How did you acquire the hostage’s name?”

“I asked him, O my King.”

“Hn,” he said. “And did you ask our guest any other impertinent questions?”

“I didn't touch him,” she snapped.

“Hn.” Ganondorf sat back in his chair until the wood squeaked. Her vehemence amused him. “That is not what I asked.”


	11. Challenge

Incense smoke coiled into the shadows from three dozen brass bowls hung from the ridgepoles. The Elite stood in two glittering arcs flanking the makeshift throne, and an elongated ring of clay lamps defined an arena at the center of the cleared space.

Ganondorf stood on the threshold of his diminished office, watching Leilani light a fourth red lantern for the cluster outside. He was confident his officers would answer swiftly, whatever their current entertainments. They would stand witness to this battle, and they would obey.

He was not so certain how he would handle Marish and Sidoo afterwards. He did not want anyone at all in his bedroom, and less still did he want to open his workroom for any reason. He’d moved everything of critical importance within its wards and sealed it. Anyone who assumed the layered cloth vulnerable to a blade would meet an electric rebuttal - and with Dashil chained in the center of the relay, the wards had enough power to flatten half the Hylian army before they could fail.

Gan let the curtain fall shut, and stood alone in the shadows, measuring his breaths. The freezing rain still drummed against his tent’s walls in defiance of all reason. He stripped off his caftan, bracing himself for the inevitable chill. It was imperative that his people believe the weather carried no significance to him whatsoever. They must never question his strength, or his control. Nor could he afford the slightest chance of them attributing its probable cause to the unknown powers of their hostage.

Leilani waited beside the throne, arms folded, eyes narrowed. She did not approve of his strategy or his minimal dress - but she had arranged a carpet of furs under his cross-brace desk chair as he asked and draped his sun-crown coverlet and gods’ teeth mantle over it perfectly. In lieu of a proper mirror, she’d hung a polished roundshield behind the throne, with four spot-lanterns arrayed to make it blaze like noon, and disguised the whole trick of it with three layers of midge veils flanked by battle standards.

He stuck his twin swords into the damp dirt on either side of the makeshift dais and claimed his seat. Leilani corrected the angle of his layered pectoral jewels, and smoothed his unbound hair with oiled hands. A King does not _have_ such mundane difficulties as frizz or flyaways.

The first division leaders to arrive did gawk at the dramatic change to the public half of his tent, but they bowed, and held their tongues. Leilani escorted each officer to their places on the layered rugs outside the tiny arena, and directed the cooks when they arrived with the same calm efficiency.

No one dared a comment on the pile of bones at his feet. No one even dared to look at them for very long. Not even Roc Belosa, who had led the First since before he was born, but refused to retire.

The mood of the assembly did mellow some, once they all had wine and food. Ganondorf did not eat, but he indulged himself in tea, kept warm at his side upon a cleverly draped warchest. Not the madman’s tea - a good roasted black, with costly cinnamon and ginger.

Marish and Sidoo brought the last guest in late. From their bright cheeks and breathless laughter, he had little doubt the two of them had relieved a little of their frustration before attending to their duty. They bowed with great flourish, and delivered their charge into the arena without needing explicit direction. Leilani gestured to an open place farther from the throne than they probably wanted, but well lit, and provided with a few more actual cushions.

Link looked at nothing and no one in the room but him. Whichever of them applied his cosmetics possessed a subtle hand - kohl and smoke mica underscored the intensity of his impossible blue eyes, and his earnest focus had blossomed into radiant, sharp-edged beauty.

They did not give him a chest covering of any kind, but somewhere they’d found a strap woven in the god’s teeth pattern and fashioned it into a matching collar and browband. His golden hair still fell in his face, but trimmed now and combed with a little fragrant oil. The delicate, shaded blue of his sirwal softened that rigid discipline further, and the ornamented rust-dyed sash they’d given him lent elegance to his slender build.

Gan found his own discipline sorely tried by the sight. By will alone he remained silent, lounging at rest upon his chosen ground.

The soft murmur of his officers’ speculation fell away to silence, and still Link neither moved nor spoke. Gan waited, watching his priceless captive stand there and look at him. He could easily read the man’s calculated appraisal of his jewels, his swift notation of the swords. But that was all. Any other thoughts or feelings he might harbor about his position remained opaque.

Gan sharpened his will to a fine point, unlocking only the leg irons.

Link took one full step forward, leaving the enchanted metal where it fell.

Ganondorf smiled at him, and with a twist of purple skyfire, his newest Stalknight assembled itself from the shattered bones of a once-proud Elite, patchworked together into a stronger whole with skyfire and steel and sculpted deer bones. A wave of sound rolled from one division leader to another as it raised its shield and blade with purpose. One covered her face, turning away from whatever would come, but she did not dare leave.

Link flicked a glance at the thing, and held his ground. He waited as the Stal edged closer, feinting to draw him out.

Link refused, remaining exactly as he was until the Stal committed all its force to a wild lunge. He sidestepped neatly, with the least possible effort necessary to evade the wicked steel.

Gan watched the man move, evading a dozen attacks in much the same fashion. A sliding step here, a twist there. Confident but not showy. He simply knew how the Stal would strike, and ensured wherever the blade was, he was not.

Gan drew the Stal out of its pattern for only a moment, rationing out a little more power to increase its tempo. Link matched its new speed with hardly more effort than before, as if he had practiced this dance a hundred thousand times before.

Gan waited to feed it a new pattern until Link’s back was turned to both him and the Stal. The edge of the shield slammed into his shoulder and spoiled his balance. A murmur rose from the audience as Link turned more of his attention to the dance.

He settled into the new step too quickly - Gan measured out another drop of power to raise the tempo a third time and dial back the defensive moves in exchange for more varied advances. Link took another few minor blows, but found his stride soon after. He danced away from every strike, his pale skin bright with sweat. Gan shifted the patterns again, watching his captive’s breath become ever more labored - but still he refused to fight back.

The division leaders watched with rapt attention, whispering to one another about this exchange or that. They understood now he did not call this servant to dance purely for entertainment, and some began to wonder if he arranged this display as a rebuke. That was good. They should never allow themselves to become complacent in their skills.

Stalfos were only ever as good as their weapons and orders. It may never tire, but what few understood was every layer of complexity demanded more power than the last. Another blow landed, sending Link sprawling. The division leaders gasped as the Stalfos followed through, pressing in for the killing blow. Link caught the blade between his hands, wrenching it forward as he rolled. He scrambled to his feet, circling and tumbling through another narrow escape.

The Stal threw its shield, knocking him off his feet again. It paused its advance to collect it again, and Link managed to scramble away from the descending blade. He did not quite evade the backslice this time - the Stal opened a shallow gash across his back, and pressed him to the edge of the arena.

Still he refused to fight, circling back, weaving under one lunge and dancing aside of another.

Gan removed the boundary spell from the lamps, and poured himself a cup of tea. He wondered vaguely if anyone besides Leilani realized the Stalfos was neither a puppet nor entirely independent. Perhaps Dashil, who should be observing the echo of this display through the priceless skybolt glass in his workroom. She was clever - if he could manage to train her even in these ridiculously limited conditions, she would make a formidable candidate for the champions’ axe.

The Stal pursued Link across the arena, pivoting in the same heartbeat as its prey, closing his avenues of retreat instead of attacking directly. Link dropped into guard half a pace from the lamps, waiting for the Stal to circle and chase him along the edge of the arena.

The Stal feinted right. Link moved left, directly into the path of the flying shield. He fell over the marked boundary and nearly into the lap of a startled division leader. He took too long pulling himself back to his feet, ignorant of his peril.

The Stal lunged, completely indifferent to the screaming division leaders within range of its wild slash. Link scrambled to knock the blade aside with a stolen honor knife and took a deep wound across his left arm in exchange.

The Stal drew back to strike again as the women scrambled to their feet and tried to organize some answer to the unexpected threat. Link charged, dropping his shoulder to ram into his opponent’s chest. The Stal gave little ground - it could not feel pain or lose its wind - but it could not reverse its grip on the sword quickly enough to strike so close. Link wrapped his hands above its elbow and wrenched the bone violently from its socket. He followed the momentum in a whirling strike, knocking the Stal back into the arena with its own arm.

Gan set down his tea.

The Stal’s arm tried to whip around and strike its wielder to no effect. The Stal roared with a chilling, eldritch fury, and its wayward arm flung the blade towards the center of the arena. The Stal plucked it out of the air with its off hand and stumbled, not yet adjusted to its imbalance. Link broke its arm across its patchwork face and leapt at his opponent barehanded.

But not exactly unarmed. He knocked the Stal to the ground and looped his hands behind its head. He hauled savagely against its riveted spine, using the short chain between his manacles to magnify his strength. The noise of the watching officers rose - they were not sure whether to cheer or attack when Link managed to pull its skull from its body.

He leapt to his feet, chasing down the hopping, chattering, confused head. He grasped it fearlessly and spun, hurling the skull with devastating accuracy directly at Ganondorf.

Gan laughed, catching the thing easily with a twist of magic as he stood. “Do not crow so quickly, little hero, that you find the weaknesses of a failed prototype.”

Link acknowledged the point with a slight bow, breathing hard.

Gan banished the skyfire lending the Stal its power, and let the bones fall as they would. The division leaders held their tongues, but they shifted uncomfortably. They could not decide how to move next - even Roc Belosa looked uncertain. She just stood at the edge of the arena, scimitars in her fists, looking to him for a more explicit order.

Ganondorf smiled. “You’ve had your leisure - now. Show our guest how true warriors dance.”

Roc Belosa understood first, bowing deeply and entering the arena. Leilani grumbled under her breath, striking a training pattern on a small shield-drum as he signaled others into the ring. She did not like her orders, but she obeyed.

They danced through the sword-flower engraved in their hearts, steel flashing, graceful and fierce as the wind. They lunged and feinted and parried in whirling symmetry. Link spun in place at the center of it all, raising his hands in impotent guard against deadly attacks darting at him from every side. Not a single blow connected - _this_ was discipline. _This_ was true skill.

Anyone could take a beating. Only a warrior could attack with full strength, and never, ever miss.

Ganondorf collected his swords and Leilani signaled the warriors with a buzzing roll and polyrhythm. Half the warriors pivoted, dancing backwards through the patterns, sparring with each sister they passed. Link whirled first one way and then the other in baffled, helpless circles, bracing himself for blows which would never land.

Another roll and the warriors reversed. Gan stalked directly through the center of the glittering clash, blades held loose. Not one warrior broke her step to avoid him - nor did any need to. He crowed with pride at their practiced perfection, and half a hundred voices rose in answer.

 _Now_ Link saw him. He dropped halfway into guard, forgetting for a moment the chain would arrest his reach. His eyes pinned, and he retreated the single step his position allowed.

Ganondorf ticked his blades up.   
The drum stopped.   
A tight pattern through the frozen moment.  
Warriors dropped to their knees, swords flat in the dirt.   
Link gasped at the chill steel embracing his neck.

“Never underestimate your enemy,” said Ganondorf with a smile.

Link fainted.


	12. Bargain

Ganondorf stared at the darkness, listening to the slow, whispering hiss of misting rain layering more ice on his tent. This miserable weather made him ache, and four strong hands kneading tension from his flesh after the challenge had improved his temper some. But the unnatural weather only softened while Link remained unconscious. It did not stop.

He lay back on his bed, turning the little stone flute over and over in his hands, learning the shape of it with his fingertips. It did not feel of any strong enchantment. Yet it _must_ be ensorcelled. Whether the flute was made by man or spirit, the stone it was carved from was like nothing else he’d ever seen. It seemed to glow in the darkness - not much. Just enough of a purple-blue haze to make him question his eyes. Around the finger holes and mouthpiece, the glow shifted slightly brighter, and more blue.

Likely, the magic inside remained dormant until the player woke it. Not a thing to be played at random to learn its secrets. Who could say what any melody might do? Neither whisper nor song teased his ears - the banished demon gem must have fallen asleep. It would cost more to rouse it next time, but the quiet pleased him.

Ganondorf listened, silencing his wandering thoughts one by one, as with temple candles. He heard only the soft rustle and thump of his Elite rotating their guard.

Marish and Sidoo had withdrawn to their own tent, and presumably their rest. Dashil sat in silent meditation, still holding the ward relay faithfully. Even if she slept, the magic would hold, albeit with more sluggish response. Leilani worked to restore a forward corner of his tent into some semblance of arming room - but either she owned far more stealth than she admitted, or she too, had gone to bed.

Link lay unconscious on the bench in the office, exactly as the Elite left him. Or perhaps by this time, he slept. Either way, he had not roused for the scent of food, and no tell-tale rattle of silver or pottery betrayed his interest now.

Perhaps he too pressed his magic beyond rational limits.

Link surely must have worked three times as hard to arrive at every village well ahead of his army, offering as ransom exactly the spoils Gan most needed from each. How he solved the puzzle of the three false commanders, Gan did not like to think about. Whatever he had done, it was done, and there was no unraveling it now. All that mattered was forward.

But if Link did not humble his ridiculous pride soon and _eat_ -

Gan lay in silence, feeling the edges of those dangerous thoughts. He had yet to pull from his captive any confession worth the name. He wasn't any closer to solving the puzzle of the mask than before. His only clue to the significance of the stone flute was that it shared the color of the man’s magic glittering on his skin when he caught a blow to his middle. And he _still_ didn't know why the man paced him all the way to the Vostre mountains, to the very edge of the Karakut barony.

Link spoke with authority on the stratagems of the Hylian King and the intrigues of the court, but teased his captor with only the vaguest hints that he possessed knowledge of the enemy’s sacred weapons. Perhaps he didn't actually know anything at all, and Gan had given him a weapon with _his_ reaction to the bluff. But - the man had shown too many other fell abilities on this campaign to dismiss him so lightly.

Anyways, the stal fight and sword dance granted _him_ leverage to rebalance the scales. Whatever moral high ground Link felt he gained by avoiding the violence he excelled in, he would abandon it without hesitation to defend another.

Gan rolled out of bed, debating the virtues of trousers. The odds of shocking his captive into a confession of any kind seemed slender at the moment - so he decided for warmth instead. He realized as he fixed the last button that if chains counted as adornment, their state of undress would nearly match.

Ganondorf shrugged into his black caftan also, and tucked the flute into one pocket as he parted the beaded curtain.

Only the thinnest veil of lantern-light filtered through the cloth walls, but the shadows had always welcomed him. Link twitched and stirred at the sound as one dreaming. He frowned in his sleep, his hands balled into fists. For a moment, Gan considered leaving him to his rest - but while exhaustion and hunger should both weaken his strange magic, the latter would kill him faster.

 _The spirits do not give him peace, but nightmares,_ Leilani had said.

A King did not have such concerns himself, and did not waste his time considering the troubled conscience of his enemy except as it offered immediate strategic advantage.

“Soon all of Hyrule should share your dread, little hero.”

The madman’s impossible blue eyes snapped open, searching the darkness. Link didn't move - he barely even drew breath, his pupils so pinned with panic he was doubtless half blind.

“You are brave little hero,” said Gan. “But foolish, to think you can stand against the Great Evil, King Ganondorf of the Geld'o."

Link tracked his voice in the shadows, eyes wide and fathomless. “I’m - not dead? No. You didn't - you didn't kill me.”

Ganondorf laughed, slipping behind his desk and regretting for a moment that he had not ordered his chair restored to its proper place. “I have bones enough in my service already - you are more interesting to me alive.”

Link licked his split lips and pushed himself upright with a rattle of chain. Though his pupils swelled to draw in the smallest crumbs of light, he could not fix his gaze on any single point. He worked his jaw and let the words fall into the silence between them. “For now.”

Ganondorf smiled, though he doubted the madman could see it. “Do not pretend to any great fear of death, little hero. Do you think I cannot see the truth already? Such pathetic lies don't suit you.”

Link snorted in derision, and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Nor you, Demon King. Truth is as much a stranger to you as mercy. I _told_ you not to do anything stupid-”

Link cut himself off with a guttural exclamation and scrambled gracelessly off the bench as Gan summoned a tiny, crackling ball of lightning to hand. Link stumbled and fell, brought up short by his chains.

“Indeed,” drawled Ganondorf. He lofted the little ball of lightning into the delicate brass lantern above his desk, letting its power fill the faceted stone inside and overflow to the next lantern, and the next, and the next, until the whole of the tiny cloth room glowed faintly yellow-green. “Meanwhile, you are stupid enough for ten. Stop wallowing about on the floor like a beast unless you have a great yearning to be fed like one.”

Mage or no, a man with a guilty conscience, delirious with sleep deprivation and hunger, might say any number of wild things. Anyways, he was a foreigner. A Hylian. An enemy spy, possibly a would-be traitor, or a pretender to the same. It wasn't as if they shared any real understanding, even if the man possessed an astonishing command of the desert language. Waste of energy to bother getting angry about it.

Link stared at the lanterns, agape and blinking, as if he couldn't understand what they were. Under his breath, he mumbled: “ _Beast_.”

“Hn,” said Ganondorf, trying to untangle the man’s strange reaction. He lifted a lid from one of the covered pots, which proved to be some sort of mashed vegetable with butter and garlic. Perhaps Farou thought Leilani fetched a second dinner for him, instead of breakfast for their mad captive. “That _can_ be arranged. Unless perhaps you have grown fond of one of my subjects and wish to surrender your share of my attention to her.”

The madman blinked at him, wide blue eyes fixed with uncomfortable focus on his face as he uncovered the rest of the dishes. None of it fancy - roasted apples, unidentifiable poultry in savory sauce, a dish of honey pastries cut in tiny wedges - but his own stomach rumbled just looking upon it all.

“That isn't - no. _Don't_. You have embraced tyranny enough already,” said Link at last, leaning on the bench for support to regain his feet. “You will never gain your greatest desire if you continue that path.”

“Hn,” said Ganondorf, perching on the edge of his heavy olivewood desk and eating a slice of apple. “What does an ascetic little hero know of desire?”

“Enough,” snapped Link. He looked away to his left, jaw tight.

Ganondorf summoned an ornate silver fork from the ether, twirling it in his fingers. He watched his silent captive for a hint of how the man might move. He needed to uncover what drove Link’s madness, what pattern might explain his wild contradictions. A fell mage and masterful fighter, and at the same time, a most submissive hostage. Morbidly disinterested in his own welfare, yet he instinctively moved to avoid the minor discomfort of a mere handful of lightning which wasn't intended as a weapon anyway.

 _Why_?

“You do realize you could end this at any time,” said Gan quietly, offering the fork handle-first.

Link twitched, fixing his opaque gaze on the bright silver instead of meeting his eyes. “So can you.”

Gan raised a brow. “Perhaps you have not noticed that even without your charming ransoms, I am winning this war in every way that matters. Hyrule will bow to me before another year passes.”

Link snorted. “You underestimate your enemy. Every cruelty of yours is another arrow in their quiver - and another reason for the provincial lords and client kings to unite under the red lion banner against you.”

“Hn,” said Ganondorf, twirling the fork in his fingers again. “But now _I_ have _you_ , little hero.”

Link snatched the fork away, pale skin flooding with rose, his chains jingling merrily. “Yes. For now. For only as long as I deem it necessary.”

Gan laughed, equally amused by his captive’s defiance and embarrassment. “Next will you claim to eat nothing but wind and drink only moonbeams?”

Link’s nose wrinkled when he scowled, and his blush spread to the very tips of his pointy ears. He speared an apple slice and ate it in two savage bites.

Ganondorf laughed.

Sleet layered more insults on his tent, and his captive frowned even deeper, ridiculous, red-faced, sullen, and deceptively frail. Ganondorf laughed harder.

“Stop it,” Link muttered, eating a few forkfuls of mashed vegetables. “You're not _that_ funny.”

Ganondorf laughed until his eyes watered. _No one_ defied him like this.

“You are a _fool_ ,” said Ganondorf at last, scrubbing a hand over his face as he stood. “It is well you are _inconvenient_ or I should be tempted to keep you.”

Link scowled, swallowing another mouthful of food. So he’d found his appetite after all. “Then what are you waiting for, Demon King?”

“Hn,” said Gan, thrusting his hands in his pockets. “Don't be stupid, little hero. I'm not going to kill you. I want the things you know.”

Link picked through the bowls, eating in sullen silence.

“Tell me,” said Gan, “about these little toys you carried into my camp.”

Link’s gaze snapped up to meet his in unmistakable challenge. “No.”

“Very well,” said Ganondorf with a shrug. He drew the little stone flute from his pocket, studying it with as much discipline as he could muster. He didn't much want to give the lovely instrument to the demon gem, though he couldn't exactly untangle why. Only that the thought displeased him in much the same fashion as the prospect of actually having to destroy it. “They were annoying me anyway.”

“Don't,” whispered Link.

Gan tossed the flute in the air and caught it again before he bothered looking at Link. He was a little surprised to find the man drawn and white-knuckled at such a thin ploy. “Why not?”

Link swallowed hard, but said nothing.

“Why defend a pathetic piece of rock before your own life?” Gan asked before he could think better of it.

Link nearly whispered his answer. “It is a thing worth saving. Let that be enough.”

“Hn,” said Gan, closing his fist around the stone flute. “Enjoy your dinner, little hero. Fight as well tomorrow, and I may even give you wine.”


	13. Persuasion

Sleet turned to a cold fog and anemic snow somewhere just before dawn. The winds calmed by midmorning, and noon sparkled in every direction, mazing the eye. Though the day seemed warmer, the snowy fog held fast.

Ganondorf began to regret launching his campaign so early this spring. But - he had not thought to reach the edge of Karakut estate _quite_ so soon. He shrugged off the thought. All that mattered was forward.

Dashil roused from her meditations when he slipped through the ward and curtains into his workroom. She knelt at his feet, silent, and more serene than he’d seen her in days.

Ganondorf smiled. He vanished her golden chains through the ether and back to their place. He followed that with a fragile ward bubble of silence, stretching it out within a thumbswidth of the innermost partition of black silk. Dashil bowed, forehead pressed against the rug, awaiting his command.

“Rise, and dance the sixth pattern,” he said, offering her the blackened two-handed blade of his Elite.

Dashil bolted upright, mouth agape. “With _that_? But - I am not from the sword-courts - forgive me, O my King-”

“Crescent blades are as the roc’s talons: an extension of the arm, swift and graceful,” he said, drawing the first pattern in the air with his off hand. “The greatsword is instead an extension of the soul, and demands more perfect discipline. Rise, and dance the sixth pattern.”

Dashil stammered, bowing deeply to buy herself time to think. “I - have no wish to displease you, Sun’s Ray.”

Ganondorf said nothing.

Dashil drew a deep breath, standing on the release as she made her choice. She braced herself against the expectation of great weight and grasped the hilt in both hands.

Ganondorf folded his arms and paced the edge of the workroom, watching her learn the balance of the vast blade. He corrected her grip and let the pattern itself adjust her stance. After the third repeat he opened the chest of gear left behind by Oranni. Nothing about the long scale cuirass or heavy boots or closed helm distinguished it from the base armor of any other Elite, not anymore. He’d erased all such marks, and the horsehair crest from the helm. He’d spent considerable energy enchanting the surface ornaments to reflect his power and adjust the steel to her proportions already, although the final details still needed to be finished in situ.

Dashil was not stupid - she grounded the greatsword and leaned on the hilt to gather her strength for his next order. The silence shrouding them would hold perhaps another hour at best, and anyways there were only two other basic patterns which could be danced in such a small space without adjustment. He needed her in full veils _now_. She could earn the rest in (silent) service with the others.

 

_**\- o - O - o -** _

 

Morning passed into afternoon, and the snow continued. The windless bright fog blurred the other colorful tents to broad splotches of more subtle, faded hues than any Geldo weaver would countenance - but his Elite had judged well the proper scale for an arena in these conditions. Only when his servants carried the fight three-quarters of the way across the field did the fog veil them at all, and even then the torches burning at all fourteen stations of the enormous sword flower transformed both man and constructs into gilded silhouettes.

Leilani refreshed his tea, and the mugs of his petitioners and darknut guests. They murmured thanks, but their attention remained fixed on the fight. If the Baron’s knights were half as faithful in service as his information suggested, they would be delivering him a most explicit report on the strength of the Geldo before the week closed.

The man would be wise to consider twice before mounting opposition before the King who enslaved such an exquisite warrior as a mere gladiator to entertain his army.

Ganondorf leaned back in his makeshift throne, infinitely glad to have his arming suit back from Leilani’s needle. The shelter of the tent above and his wards stretched across the open side did assist the braziers - but the longer Link played out his circuitous, defensive strategy, the less good any of it seemed to do. The darknut sitting at his left had fur to insulate them against this miserable weather, and his soldiers bundled themselves in full kit and their cloaks besides.

A King bowed to no one and nothing.

The Rova would become even more tiresome nags if they guessed his captive had seduced the weather from his control. Ganondorf wore his caftan open with rigidly affected unconcern, and the black wool of the arming suit beneath served primarily as a striking backdrop for his wealth of topaz and amber and the emerald-crusted snake jewels. That it kept the snow off his skin was incidental.

Not that this seemed to affect Link in the least, for he answered this challenge with the same critical, smouldering obstinance as before. Sidoo reported that he hadn’t said a word when they gave him doeskin slippers and gloves and long tunic before the fight. He only shook his head in silence, and in silence allowed them to dress and paint him as before, and lead him onto the open field.

When Gan summoned the third stal and gave it a bow, Link cast a withering glare at him. He unbent enough only to pick up one of the wooden shields defining the edge of the arena, refusing any of the blunt weapons arrayed between.

“I am bored with waiting for your liege to offer a ransom for your return,” drawled Gan, sipping his tea.

One of the darknut dragged his attention from the fight, grip tightening on his mug. Gan let the vague threat hang in the air, his own gaze firmly upon the four combatants. Not that this was particularly difficult - the madman had let the stal pin him against the edge of the arena. His shield bristled with arrows, his chains heavy with frost, and his thin clothing was soaked from tumbling across the snow. Yet he waited for the constructs to close around him, lunging under the reach of one so the mace of the other came down on animated bone instead of living flesh.

“I have _one_ further use for you,” said Gan, considering whether to add a fourth stal to the challenge - perhaps one of the lizal constructs or a larger blin - or if he should vary things and summon a lesser poe. He could risk a living fighter against the man - but which could he spare?

Marish and Sidoo murmured to one another at his right, and Leilani snorted in disapproval. She served faithfully regardless, but her opinion of their conversation told him everything he needed to know about how the entertainment affected them.

“I find myself with a pair of extra horses, and no particular interest in feeding them in this miserable country either,” said Gan, watching Link lead the damaged stal around the arena. “Take them, and this message to the Baron: the Great Ganondorf comes to these mountains to sharpen his sword. Let him send his most elite champion to face my best warrior, so I may judge if his army is worth my time.”

The darknut both licked their lips, ears taut with nervous energy. Gan finished his tea, turning the empty cup in his fingers. A subtle unspoken charm made the gods’ teeth pattern seem to undulate over its surface, grinding sky against rust as the hum of brewing lightning whispered across the snow.

Link cried out when the next arrow struck his shield, and both darknut sat forward, eyes and ears focused on the madman again as he tumbled to the ground with golden light crawling over his pale skin, sizzling on his warded chains. He dropped the buzzing shield and scrambled to his feet a moment later, but not quickly enough to avoid a tap from the electrified staff of the second stal.

Gan let Leilani pour him more tea, though he no longer had any intention of drinking it. The lightning pushed his captive to replace his shield twice more as he fled around the arena to avoid the sting. He chose a crude wooden spear after the archer knocked his third shield from his hands, dashing in a wild loop that tangled his opponents on one another for a few precious heartbeats.

Link used the bulk of the mace-wielder as a screen between himself and the archer, tempting it to fire in vain. He rolled under the descending mace in the exact moment of the arrow’s release, dashing forward and throwing all his weight into a thrust at the archer’s forward hip. The hardened point slid across the cup of the ilium, dislodging the femur and dumping the construct on its face.

Link wasted not one breath. He whipped the spear around and smashed the archer’s patchwork skull with two brutal strikes. He used the second as leverage to catapult himself to the far side of the bones before the staff wielder could swipe his feet from under him. He dropped the spear, raising the stolen bow and a stray arrow just in time to knock the mace wielder back.

In another handful of breaths the fight was over, all three skulls smashed and the stalfos’ enchantments likewise shattered.

“Hn,” said Gan, propping his chin on his fist. The madman would no doubt continue to deny any particular terror of light, but his vehement response on the field left no doubt of its hold over him.

He held exactly three points of leverage against the man who claimed to know his most private motives in raising the war banner this year. Threat to a noncombatant, threat to the mask and stone flute (for he seemed completely indifferent to the loss of the stolen snake jewels and the white marble pebble), and now the touch of lightning.

Ganondorf summoned Dashil from his workroom with a inconveniently expensive flourish of violet smoke.

Link stepped back, frowning up into the fathomless shadows of the enchanted horned helm.

Dashil stood in perfect, unmoving guard, her armored gloves crossed over the fat pommelnut of the black sword.

Gan waited, letting Link circle around his newest Elite, letting his little army drink in the purple darklight mist veiling her from their spirit eyes, and the low hum of the layered seals and enchantments engraved into the steel.

Link completed his circuit, turning his scowl from his next opponent to his captor.

Gan smiled.

Link’s spear shattered under the first blow of the greatsword. One after another, he broke weapons of bone and wood against Dashil’s ponderous but unstoppable might.

Somehow though, by the third time they looped around the heart of the arena, he recovered a fistful of arrows still crackling with lightning. The anxious intensity of the soldiers - and guests - observing the display swelled to a roar when Link raised the forgotten bow. The wet, half-frozen string snapped after the second arrow, but the lingering magic stunned Dashil long enough for him to kick the sword from her hands and spin her around.

The greatsword proved too heavy for him to lift easily, but he strained to master it anyway. His eyes sparked with fury more than desperation, even when Dashil lunged at his back and pinned him to the snow.

Link could have attempted to break her hold if he released the sword - but he refused, baring his teeth as the army cheered.

Gan set aside his cold tea, striding into the arena despite the unpleasant chill. He vanished the black sword to the ether for a moment, annoyed by the painful twinge of warning that he drew close to the dregs of his personal reserve.

Dashil wound her fist in the sodden linen tunic Marish had chosen for the captive and stood, lifting him to his feet and then into the air so his cold blue eyes were level with Gan’s. She remained silent under the restrictions of his magic, but he held no doubt she was coming to appreciate the advantages of her new form.

“You could end this at any time,” drawled Gan, gesturing with a subtle flick of his fingers to the arena and the noisy crowd at its edges. Even the darknut were chattering noisily about the fight - only his Elite retained their discipline.

“So could you,” rasped Link.

“Hn,” said Gan, shaking his head at the madman. “Miserable weather for a battle, isn’t it?”

Link curled his lip in contempt, though his feet dangled well off the ground. In no possible world could he be in a position to threaten his captor, but he refused to surrender. “Pity you’ve become too _pigheaded_ to heed Nayru’s warning.”

“What are you after? What in all of this,” said Gan, gesturing to the chained man and the obedient servant holding him. “What could you possibly think to gain _here_?”

Link said nothing.

Gan summoned the leg irons back to their place binding Link’s ankles, shaking his head at the man’s folly. Dashil dropped him. Link sprawled gracelessly in the snow at their feet as Gan returned Dashil’s sword from the ether. Link only sighed when she rested the curved end on his chest, more or less indifferent to the threat of death, as usual.

Gan studied the mood of his army, divided as they were between votes for execution and for profitable forms of mercy. He rumbled low enough only his captive and his servant could hear him ask again: “What do you want, little hero?”

“Peace,” said Link, meeting Gan’s eye with the same opaque expression as always.

“Hn,” said Gan, turning heel for his tent. Marish and Sidoo stood with perfect grace, brows arched and eyes bright. “See that he eats, and that our guests are provisioned - appropriately.”

“At once, O my King,” they said together, bowing.

“Hn,” said Gan, running his tongue over his teeth as he considered the shape of their spirits - and the attitude of his darknut guests. “My Elite are more than sufficient to oversee the work of servants.”

Both women grinned wickedly, licking their lips in anticipation.

Gan rationed out another drop of power to shift his four lanterns from red to blue.

Somewhere in the crowd outside the komuz player made her instrument laugh as his Elite closed the tent wall behind them.


End file.
